Corn, Pie, and the FBI
by jmr27
Summary: August, 1995. Sam and Dean are staying in a rural Illinois town when the FBI come with a warrant to arrest John for credit card fraud. Sam and Dean spend the end of their summer evading FBI agents, explore small-town life, and meet the Amish (who make excellent pie!). Pre-Series. Teen!chesters.
1. Dean's Bad Day

This story came from a question. How did Agent Henricksen know so much about John Winchester and his kids, and why was he so set on catching them? I imagine the journey was a long one. He had been hunting John, at least, for many years before he ever caught up with Dean in season 2. This is not intended to be an AU, just a 'what if'. What if Henricksen had prior history with the Winchesters? What if he was hunting John back in the 90s, and found the boys instead...

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Dean's Bad Day**

(August, 1995 Sam is 12, Dean is 16)

Everything about this day was going wrong.

First, Sam had spilled his spaghetti all over the back seat of the Impala. Dad had made Sam wipe it up, but Sam seemed to have forgotten about the many uses for soap and left a sticky, crusty mess that Dean had to go and re-clean. His little brother had been particularly whiny and clumsy lately. If he'd been a girl, Dean would have assumed PMS, but Sam had no such excuse. When asked why he was feeling crabby, all he did was glare and complain some more.

Then, the engine had started to overheat. Dad had insisted Dean help repair it.

Dean didn't mind. He loved learning how to take care of the Impala. There was something relaxing about caring for the aging engine. Every part had a purpose, and if they were maintained and kept in correct condition, they all worked together beautifully. Car problems were simple. Either something was broken, or it wasn't. Fix it, and it worked again. Dean liked the straightforward logic, and the warm, fuzzy feeling that accompanied the sense of accomplishment after a repair was completed. Baby was the one anchor Dean had in a world fast becoming complicated by puberty.

Today, though, Baby had betrayed him. Radiator fluid had escaped from under a broken cap, scalding Dean's hand. A helpful farmer's wife had seen them stopped for repairs and brought him a sticky green plant she called 'aloe' to put on the burn. It seemed to help, but Dean's hand still smarted.

Sick of the stinking leftover-spaghetti smell and hand throbbing, Dean had been almost asleep when Dad pulled into the motel, Countryside Inn. Situated across the road from the graveyard, it was a small, but cleaner than most places they had stayed with quilts on the beds. It was also tiny, with no phone in the room, and only one bed. Dean and Sam both whined that they were too old for the same bed, Sam was almost a teenager and Dean was old enough for a legal ID if he wanted one. Dad said there were no other options and he couldn't afford a second room. Dean begged for extra blankets and made a nest on the floor.

Then, there was the town itself. It was one of the smallest Dean had ever been in. A population sign next to the motel proudly declared "Roseville" to be the home of 1,150 residents. There was a Casey's, a bowling alley, an ice cream stand, and the motel. Nothing else. Dean even walked to the center of the town (it took ten minutes) and verified that he could indeed see a cornfield from every direction. They were, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere.

Dad had left with a few words about being back in time to enroll them in school somewhere else. It wasn't until after he left that Sam started to complain about the heat and Dean realized the air conditioner was broken. He called Dad, but there was no answer. He called the motel manager, and was told that the problem was with the whole building, not just their room, so moving wouldn't help.

Dean would have torn the A/C unit apart to fix it himself, but the tools were in the Impala with Dad. So the temperature climbed, and with it, so did both brother's tempers.

Dean paced the confines of the tiny kitchenette. He had dragged out the cooking of dinner and subsequent cleaning up as long as possible, but it barely put a dent in the evening. Sam, still grumpy, hadn't been much for conversation and had retreated to watch TV from his bed. Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego. It was a cheesy game show that tried to disguise geography and world culture lessons and make them fun.

Sam thought it was fascinating. Dean didn't normally mind, sometimes they would have a funny skit, or a hot chick. But Sam would always sit there, shouting out answers before Dean had finished processing the question. He was at it now, babbling at the TV screen, saying words like "Tippecanoe" and "Van Gogh."

Fixing Baby made him feel like he could do anything. Watching educational TV with his nerdy kid brother made him feel like a loser.

There was no place to go to escape, not even an arcade in the motel.

So Dean paced, wishing that something, anything interesting would happen.

* * *

 **Notes:**

For you younger folk out there, Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego was actually a show that was on in the 90s. Also, Roseville, Illinois, is a real town, with one hotel, the Countryside Inn.

So, what do you think? Is anyone interested in reading more? Please review and let me know!


	2. On the Case

**Chapter 2: On the Case**

Victor Henricksen was not happy. This was unremarkable, as Victor was rarely happy. Especially lately. He'd spend the morning haggling over divorce papers with his wife's attorney. He was on probation and working in white-collar division after a case gone wrong some six months previous. He was out in the middle of nowhere chasing a second-rate credit card con artist through Illinois corn country.

Henricksen hated corn. It always made uncomfortable, unmentionable things happen between his guts and his bowels. The other option around here seemed to be soy beans, though Henricksen couldn't think of a single use for them.

"See, soy protein," his partner, Agent Baum, said, pointing a greasy finger at the burger wrapper. They had grabbed the nauseating bits of faux-meat at the last fast food joint about half an hour back, in the only town with a traffic light between here and the state line. "I told you, soy beans are in everything."

Baum spoke with his mouth full, like a cow at its cud. There were a sprinkling of cows across the countryside, where the hills were to steep for corn or soybeans. It was a blessing that night had fallen, so the wide, empty space with its withering fields was no longer visible. All Henricksen could see was the cone of black asphalt illuminated by his headlights.

A bright orange triangle entered the headlight's range, perched on a black box, a warning that this was a slow moving vehicle.

Henricksen slammed on the brakes. The speedometer hit 10 miles per hour and was still catching up to the vehicle, which turned out to be a horse-drawn buggy. "What the Hell?"

"Amish." Agent Baum slurped at the last of his icee. His lips were blue from the dye. He licked his fingers and rubbed them clean on his pant legs rather than his napkin. "They've been slowly moving into the area."

Agent Baum was full of useless facts. Unfortunately, he was also full of useful ones, which was why he was happily employed as a data analyst with the FBI's Midwest White Collar division. It was he who had tracked their current target to this backwater location.

Henricksen zipped around the horse-drawn buggy, though there was no reason to hurry. Ten minutes or ten days, it wouldn't matter. Once he closed this case, he'd be off to hunt another obscure, low-level con.

If he closed enough cases quickly, without skipping the red tape or breaking any rules, he might make it back to homicide by the end of the decade. He needed a break, a con turned killer or something, to prove his worth to his former boss and get his old position back, tracking the deadliest men across the country. He had joined up to protect people from violence, not to protect credit card companies from inconvenience.

Henricksen reviewed the case in his mind. John Winchester, a man who lived in cheap motels and chose names by flipping through a phone book. There was no pattern to his movements that Victor could see. Fortunately, Baum had a theory that had a paid off. He'd done something fancy with math to correlate John's credit card patterns with grisly crime scenes. Winchester always appeared a few weeks after the first murder hit the papers.

They'd set up at the offices in Peoria, the last bastion of civilization before entering farm country, when the call came. John had used his credit card at a tiny motel in Roseville, thirty miles from a series of strange deaths with possible occult ties. There was no way John was responsible for those, unfortunately. The pattern showed that he chased strange crimes, he didn't start them. Solving that murder case, thought, that could be the ticket out of white collar that Henricksen needed. So he hadn't argued with Baum's crazy theory about John Winchester being a paranormal investigator.

A town came into view, then passed them by again in the blink of an eye. More corn, then a dip in the skyline that indicated they were passing a soybean field instead. Finally, the sign for Roseville hove into view. The motel was on the edge of town, right across from the graveyard. Only one room was occupied, the glow from the lights filtering through the curtain. Henricksen jumped from the car, and was hit by a wave of humidity and the sound of crickets. Blech.

He waited while Baum ran their warrant in to the motel manager and came back with the key.

"Let's get this over with." Henricksen raised his gun, ready to burst into the room and take down their man. Baum put the key in the lock and banged on the door.

"FBI! Put your hands over your head!"

* * *

 **Note:** What will Dean and Sam do when the FBI bursts into their motel room? What will Henricksen do when faced with kids instead of a criminal he can arrest?

More will be coming soon, although it may be a few weeks. I have another large project in progress right now that I need to finish (Summer Job, if you'd like to read it!) but this story will be my next focus. I had these two chapters ready, so I thought I'd post and see if anyone is interested in the rest. Please let me know what you think about the story. I write for reviews! Thanks!


	3. Be Careful What You Wish For

**Note:** Thanks everyone for your reviews! I'm glad to see that you're interested in reading more. Here is the next bit.

 **Chapter 3: Be Careful What You Wish For**

Air conditioner parts lay scattered across the hotel room floor, a pile of grimy coils and wires sticking up in all directions. Sam squinted at them from the bed, making their lines blur in his vision. What would they be like, if they jumped up and turned into transformers? It would be so much fun to have a helpful little friend who could ride along in his pocket. Or would they turn out to be Decepticons who would bite him or try to melt him with acid and take off with plans to destroy the world?

After all, monsters existed under the bed and in the closet. Ghosts were real, and werewolves too. Could there be monsters in machines?

Sam knew better than to ask Dean, who scowled at the air conditioner's innards with the air of a mad scientist whose pet monster had just misbehaved. Dean had been crabby all day. First, he had yelled at Sam for spilling spaghetti in the back seat, even though it was Dad's fault they hit the pothole, and Dad's fault they were driving while eating instead of staying at the restaurant.

Dad had wanted to make it to the hotel before nightfall, so he could get started on the hunt right away. After checking them in and handing Dean cash for groceries, he had left. It hadn't been long after that they had realized the air conditioner wasn't working, and Dean's grumpy got worse with every degree of heat as they slowly roasted in their stuffy little room.

Then, Dean had vanished for half an hour and returned with a set of tools. Sam knew better than to ask where they came from. He just sat and watched his TV shows until the cartoons ran out and the adult shows came on. Now he was reduced to staring at Dean while Dean stared at the air conditioner and they both sweated through the only clean pair of clothes they had.

"Dean! You've been working on that for an hour. I'm bored."

"Yeah, well I'm hot."

"If you haven't fixed it yet, you're not going to. The manager said all of the frion leaked out and it won't work again until they get it replaced."

Dean threw his screwdriver against the wall. "Dammit! When did he tell you that?"

"When I went to get a soda."

"Why didn't you tell me? You went twenty minutes ago."

"You looked like you were having fun. And Transformers was still on."

Dean scrunched his face and glared at Sam. "Seriously?"

Sam ignored Dean's bad mood and pressed on with his point. "You're bored too! Let's do something. It's not bedtime for hours." If the Winchester boys could be said to have a bedtime. They were regularly up past midnight. Sam didn't know how to sleep before the clock struck twelve, and neither did Dean.

"Dad said we should train. We could spar."

Big brother always knew how to make little brother shut up.

"No, no. I'm good. I forgot I have this book." Sam grabbed his backpack and pulled out a ratty old paperback. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He had taken it out of the school library in January, and they moved before he had a chance to return it. Which meant it was his now. He'd read it ten times and didn't want to read it again, but Dean usually ran the other way whenever books were mentioned.

"Nah, I'm bored too." Dean shoved the pile of useless parts toward the wall. "Did the manager have any board games?"

Sam tossed the book aside without hesitation. Dean was cooling off, figuratively if not literally. "He was playing solitaire."

"Perfect! We can have a poker lesson."

Sam rolled his eyes. "That's boring!"

Dean grinned. "Not when you take home the pot, it ain't."

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Someone hammered at the door. Dean motioned to Sam to hide under the bed and grabbed for the shotgun even before a loud voice shouted, "FBI!"

Sam hit the floor just as the door slammed open and two men charged in, wearing black suits, guns held ready in their hands. One was lean and skinny, with pale skin and lips dyed blue from some kind of candy. The other was tall and dark, with a round face and a head full of black hair. They both kept shouting, "FBI! Put your hands up and get down on the ground! Now!"

"No!" Dean held the shotgun ready.

Sam scrambled for a hiding place, but the beds were low and he wasn't as small as he used to be. He ran right into the rail at the bottom of the bed, clocking his head against the metal bars.

"Oh!" He gasped and blinked hard against the tears and the sharp pain.

Dean's head snapped around to Sam. The agents took the opportunity to slip forward. Dean stepped back and waved the shotgun at both of them. "Stay back!" He reached out his arm and gathered Sam under it. Sam clung to Dean's shirt. He could hear Dean's heart hammering almost as hard as his own. His big brother was just as scared as Sam, but he didn't let a bit of it show on his face.

"You scared my brother."

Both agents took an involuntary step back from the heat in Dean's voice.

"Uh-Henricksen. He's a kid. He's not our guy," the nerdy agent said, lowering his gun. "Look, kid, we're sorry to scare you. We must have gotten the wrong room."

"This is the only room with a tenant."

"Well, this isn't John Winchester."

"Dad?" Sam clamped his hand over his mouth as soon as the word escaped, but it was too late. The bigger agent fixed him with sharp eyes.

"You're John Winchester's kids?"

"Yeah, what of it?" Dean snapped, but he had lowered the shotgun. Guns were for monsters, not people. "You don't have any right to come in here and scare me and my brother."

"Kids." The big agent's face twitched, and he shook his head. "How did we miss that?"

The nerdy agent shrugged. "No charges for Toys R' Us on the credit card trail? Boss, what do we do with kids?"


	4. Caught

**Chapter 4: Caught**

Criminals never operated according to plan. It didn't matter how good the profile, how well-thought-out the trap, there was always something unexpected. Henricksen had been in the FBI for over a decade, and he thought he was prepared for anything.

Until he found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun at two terrified kids. The older one tried to hide it. He put on a bad-boy attitude and acted like nothing was wrong. The little one buried his face in his brother's side, when he wasn't staring reproachfully at the agents with huge, sad eyes.

Henricksen assessed the situation quickly. He didn't have time to think things through. He had to make a decision on the spot. They might be children, but he was here to catch a criminal, and they were surely witnesses in some sense of the word. The best strategy was to divide, interrogate, and compare stories later. Victor sent Agent Baum away with the cocky teenager and settled himself with the kid. Baum spent his days with books and numbers, and Victor didn't trust him not to mis-handle the child. The teenager, well, he would smart-off and make himself obnoxious no matter what. It was no loss to make Baum have to deal with that.

The boy sat on the motel room bed, knees drawn up to his chest, big eyes fixed on Henricksen, tracking his every move and looking as if were ready to duck a blow. Victor softened his expression and opened up his posture to make himself appear less threatening.

"Hi. My name's Victor. What's yours?"

"Sam." The voice was shrill with fear, the boy pulled his knees tighter to his chest.

"Well, Sam, I'm sorry if I scared you. I didn't know you were here. If I had, I wouldn't have done that." Henricksen gestured to the door they had busted in through. "Maybe we can start over again, what do you say?"

Sam cocked his head, considering the proposition. "Are you going to arrest me? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to steal it." He pushed a ratty old paper-back toward Henricksen. "We left town before I could take it back to the library. I would have taken it back. I didn't mean to steal it."

Henricksen bit back a laugh. It wouldn't do to startle the kid, he was scared enough already. Now, it was time to build trust. "I'm not worried about a book, Sam. I trust you, I think you're a good kid. You would take it back if you could. But you couldn't. Because of your dad."

Sam sniffed, pulled the book back toward himself, and nodded.

"You know your dad does bad things, don't you?"

Sam's eyes narrowed. "No."

Damn, wrong thing to say. Henricksen shifted his feet, trying to figure out how to back out of the snake pit he'd walked into. "What is your dad like?"

"Why should I tell you?" All trace of fear was gone. Sam was glaring up at the big FBI agent with narrowed eyes. "You just want to put him in jail. Why would I help you put my dad in jail?"

Henricksen gestured at the motel room around them. "Do you live here?"

Sam blinked and crinkled his forehead. "No-yes-uh-"

"Where do you live, Sam?"

Sam scowled, closed his mouth, and shrugged. "Why do you care?"

"It's not very nice, is it? I mean, sure, traveling can be fun sometimes. But you travel all the time. I know nobody likes to be the new kid in school." Sam's scowl deepened, and Henricksen pressed on. "Do you have any friends?"

"That's none of your business."

"No, no, you're right." This kid was touchy. Henricksen backpedaled again. Those big eyes his a fiery little temper of the worst kind. Unpredictable. Henricksen liked people he could understand and predict. He wasn't afraid to push people's buttons, but only when he knew what the reaction would be. One wrong move, and he would completely shut this kid down. He'd been given the silent treatment by a child once before. It hadn't gone well.

"You don't have to live like this, you know."

Sam's chin came up at this. His eyes narrowed again, but this time with interest, not suspicion.

"I can help you find a new place to live, Sam. You could have a house with a whole room just for you. You could go to the same library all the time. Make friends."

"I could go to the same school all year?"

Henricksen raised his eyebrows. School wasn't usually a selling point with kids. "Yeah, one school all year."

Sam bit his lip and leaned closer to the agent. Henricksen smiled. He had him hooked, time to reel him in.

"Sounds like you don't get any of that with your dad. He's not ever here with you now."

The hopeful expression vanished, replaced by the suspicious glower again. "I'm not going to help you find my dad."

"Sam, your dad steals money. He has to go to jail for that. But if you help me, I can make sure you have a nice place to live while he is gone."

"You don't have any control over where I go when Dad's in jail. That's child services. I might get stuck in a group home. You might send me to juvie."

"If you refuse to tell me where your dad is, it is a crime. It's called aiding and abetting."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I know that. But you can't prove I know where he is, so you can't prove I'm doing anything wrong."

Henricksen desperately wished he'd taken the teenager and left Baum with this kid. It was like playing hot-potato with an emotional firecracker. He couldn't read the kid, and had no idea what would set him off. There were very few people who Henricksen couldn't read, and they always set him on edge. He didn't like when he couldn't see what a person was thinking. This kid was young, so young, but the way he flipped through emotions, as fast as changing channels on a TV, it was creepy.

He's just a kid, not a dangerous psychopath, Henricksen told himself. You can handle a kid. "Look, kid-"

"Look, agent!" Sam crossed his arms in imitation of Henricksen. "I've had enough of your attitude. You better cooperate, young man, or you're going to be in trouble."

Clearly, this wasn't the kid's first run-in with cops. Henricksen's jaw tensed, the word's he's been ready to use stolen by a twelve-year-old. "That's not funny, kid. This is serious."

"This is serious," Sam mocked. "You're in big trouble and you should show some respect." Sam wagged his finger, an imitation of adults everywhere, then jabbed Henricksen in the chest with it. "You busted into my bedroom, you almost shot my brother. You want to arrest my dad. I'm in trouble. Blah, blah, blah. This is serious? Yeah, I got the message. But you know what? I deal with kids like you all the time. 'Cause you're just a bully, and you don't scare me."

Bully? Henricksen burned at the jibe. His badge, his training, his years of hard work, boiled down to a tussle in the schoolyard. I am not a bully. He bit back the words. He was not twelve. He would not get into an 'am-not/are-too' argument. It could last for hours. He was a grown-up, an FBI agent, doing serious work. Sort-of.

Who was this kid to make him question his identity and his career with one simple sentence? "I am doing my job! Look, kid…"

Sam settled cross-legged on the bed, shut his mouth, and made a motion to lock it and throw away the key. He turned up the level of his glare, boring into Henricksen as if his eyes had laser beams. Let the silent treatment begin.

Damn, I hate kids. Henricksen felt his blood boiling. Grown-ups knew how to be properly intimidated by the FBI. Grown-ups understood logic. Kids hadn't learned these lessons yet.

Victor wondered if Agent Baum was getting along any better with the teenager.


	5. Sixteen going on eighteen

**NOTE:** I added a new chapter four and this has now become chapter five. That's what I get for not plotting things out before I post them! The new chapter is actually chapter four, when Henricksen attempts to interrogate Sam.

 **C** **hapter 5: Sixteen going on eighteen**

Wishes had never come true for Dean Winchester. He had made many of them, once upon a time, when he believed that the world was a good place, before Mom's death and Dad's obsession. As the years wore on and his life moved further and further from the realm of wishes, Dean had lost all faith in them.

Maybe had had been wishing too big. Maybe, smaller wishes were the key. After all, his only wish had been that something interesting would happen. Now, he sat in an empty motel room, facing off against an FBI agent with blue-slushee mouth and the pale skin of a man who rarely saw the out doors. He was the analyst, the nerd who came along to spout useful facts for the field agents. He didn't have the first clue how to deal with teenagers, much less Winchesters.

Which was why Dean wasn't worried that they'd had separated him from Sam, or about the 'interrogation' about to ensue. It was, in fact, exactly what he had wished for. This was going to be too easy.

That agent (Dean dubbed him "Blue" for the slushy colored lips) loomed over the chair where Dean was seated, shoulders puffing, trying to look fierce and scary. Then he frowned and shook his head with a 'who am I kidding?' look.

"Look, kid, we aren't here for you. You won't be in trouble if you cooperate."

"Trouble? I'm not going to be in trouble, you are." It was the first rule of poker. Act like you've got all the cards.

Agent Blue blinked, and scratched his head. "What? Why?"

"Don't you know the rules? I'm only 16. I'm a minor. You aren't allowed to question me without a parent present. You can't ask me where my dad is until you find my dad and he gives you permission to ask me where he is." Second rule of poker; confuse them.

Agent Blue frowned, following this train of logic. "But, you're sixteen. That's old enough to try you as an adult…"

"Only if the crime is bad enough. It's still too young for you to question me without parental permission." Dean gave him his best I'm-a-good-boy grin. "It's in the rulebook. I can wait while you look it up." Third rule of poker; make them worry.

"Huh. Agent Henricksen said-"

"Your boss was wrong. Go on, check. I bet a smart agent like you carries his rule and regulations with him everywhere."

"Well, I have got it out in the car…" Agent Blue glance at Dean, then at the door. "I'll be back in a minute. Don't go anywhere."

Dean smiled reassuringly and crossed his legs on the table in front of him, to show that he would wait. A good con didn't tip his hand too soon. The agent was back within five minutes, chewing his lip and flipped through a little pocket-sized manual. After a moment, he slapped his finger down on a page.

"Ha! Here it is. Victor must not be aware. I thought it was odd but…"

"You should tell him he can't question my brother, but first, don't you think you should call child services? I mean, we're each entitled to a child advocate." Dean kept his tone friendly, his expression hopeful. You win more battles with honey. As much as he enjoyed teasing cops, he had a little brother to look after. Not that Sammy couldn't handle himself. In fact, Dean felt a slight swell of pity for the other agent. Sam had been reaching new heights of annoyance lately. Dean would love to kick back and watch someone else face the wrath of Sam, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the other agent lost his cool and strangled Sam.

Agent Blue was on the phone, chattering and nodding excitedly. He let the receiver drop and announced, "We're in luck. There is a DCFS worker who lives here in town, she can be here in ten minutes."

"Great." Dean smiled and pointed to the door. "Should we tell Mr. Agent-in-charge?"

Agent Blue nodded and marched down the row of doors to the room Dad had originally rented, where the other agent (Dean really couldn't be bothered to remember his name, but with that thick head of curly black hair, Dean decided to call him Agent Fuzz) was 'interrogating' Sam. The shouting was audible through the walls, and none of it was coming from Sam. Dean peered through the window. Agent Fuzz was pacing up and down, waving his hands in the air. Sam just slouched in his chair, clearly unimpressed, occasionally rolling his eyes. Agent Fuzz's fingers twitched, as if he wanted to strangle the kid. It looked like Dean had arrived just in time. Dean flashed Sam a quick thumbs-up before Agent Blue opened the door, bringing the other agent's tirade to a halt.

"Victor! You have to stop." Agent Blue waved the rule-book under Agent Fuzz's nose. "They're minors, we can't question them without a child advocate present."

Dean allowed himself a silent chuckle and winked at Sam. Sam grinned, then covered his mouth before the agents could notice.

Agent Fuzz stared at Agent Blue, hands on hips. "Don't read me the rule book. You are here to crunch the numbers, nothing more! We have cause to ask these kids questions in order to find a criminal before he vanishes again. We don't have time to wait for child services."

"Well, isn't it a good thing I'm here?" A woman in jeans and a creased button-up cut across the parking lot to meet them in the doorway. She was tiny and didn't carry a gun, but the look on her face and the set of shoulders showed that her lack of weapons didn't matter. She took charge of the situation with a glance. "Arlene Trickle, DCFS. I understand there are two unaccompanied minors here?"

"No, ma'am!" Dean glanced at Sam, and motioned him to his side. Sam slithered out of his chair and crept across the room to stand at Dean's elbow. Dean didn't even have to cue Sam to turn on the puppy-dog eyes. He was giving the social worker his best pity-me face. "Our dad left on an errand. He'll be back. I think I'm old enough to baby-sit my brother."

Sam knew his cue. "Please, ma'am. Did we do something wrong? I don't want to go to jail." Dean had never been prouder. There were even fake tears swimming in Sam's eyes. Agent Fuzz's face turned thunderous at the sudden change in Sam's demeanor. Ms. Trickle's face melted and she crouched down near Sam.

"No, you're not in trouble. Did the agent threaten to send you to jail?"

Sam sniffed, and nodded. Agent Fuzz fumed. "I did not!"

"You did too!" Sam flashed the agent a vicious look and then turned the puppy-eyes back on the social worker. Dean would never understand how Sam could switch emotions so fast. His kid brother was the master con artist, if only he could get Sam to enjoy poker... "Please, ma'am, I don't want to talk to him anymore. He's mean."

"I don't want that guy near my brother again." Dean put a protective arm around Sam.

The social worker turned her stern gazed on the FBI agents. "This questioning is done until I learn more about this case. We will need to find a place for these children to say-"

"No, ma'am!" Dean pulled an ID out of his pocket, quickly checking the date on it. "I'm eighteen, see? I can take care of my brother." Dean channeled all of the confidence he could muster, not allowing even a bit of fear into his mind. If she sensed his fear, it was over.

The social worker paused for a moment, checking the date on the ID. "Alright, you and your brother can go."

Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulder and hustled him away. Sam held tight to his hand, giving away the fear he'd kept hidden from the FBI agent. Dean pulled him forward, walking as fast as possible, knowing what was coming next.

"Eighteen? He said he was sixteen."

"His ID said eighteen."

"If he's eighteen, we can question him without you, lady. Hey, get back here!"

Dean burst into a run, Sam matching his speed without comment. There wasn't much town, but there ought to be someplace they could get lost in… Dean spotted a cluster figures up the block. Kids his age, dressed all in black with black face paint, pouring out of a bright doorway and darting into the shadows with happy shrieks. It was a game of midnight tag. Dean grinned and sprinted forwards. This was too perfect.

 **NOTE: Will Sam and Dean get away? What will Agent Henricksen do when faced with twenty kids playing tag in the dark? More coming soon!**

 **Please review!**


	6. Kill the Lawyer

**Chapter 6: Kill the Lawyer**

"Hey! Get back here!"Henricksen bellowed. He skipped forward to run after the two kids, but thought better of it and turned to Ms. Trickle. She pulled back from his ferociousness, but he didn't care. "Do you know how to contact the local police?" In a small town like this, they probably didn't work 24-hours like they would in a big city. Ms. Trickle nodded, eyes wide. "Good, go get them for me. I'll need a holding cell."

Henricksen didn't wait for her reaction. He took off, running as fast as his Fed-uniform-approved dress shoes would allow. The darn things didn't have any traction. Henricksen rounded the corner, spotted a figure in black running past, and dived after it. He caught the kid by the arm and pulled a ski mask off his face.

"Ha! Gotcha."

Red hair spilled down around the girl's shoulders, and she gaped his him with wide eyes. Then, her mouth opened and she let out a blood-curdling scream. Henricksen released the teenage girl immediately, and she ran off shrieking. Two more kids darted past, wearing army-surplus camouflage jackets with green paint smeared across their cheeks. They ducked under a nearby bush to hide.

"What the hell?" Henricksen stared at them, but they made shushing noises and waved at him to move away.

"You'll give us away, mister! Get outta here!"

A flashlight beam landed in Hericksen's face, and a triumphant "Gotcha!" assaulted his ears. He squinted in the light, and a freckle-faced teen gaped back. "Oops. Sorry, mister." He turned away in hot pursuit of the many, many child-sized figures that filled the night. It was like every home in town had disgorged all residents between the ages of ten and eighteen and sent them off to run wild in the darkness.

"Midnight tag, sir. Gosh, I remember those days. Tons of fun."

Henricksen turned his glare on to Baum, who stood, hands in pockets, with an amused grin plastered across his face.

"Midnight tag? My mother never let me out of the house after dark."

Baum's eyes danced, filled with memory. "We played all the time. Once, my flashlight ran out of batteries and I was-"

The words blurred before they ever reached Henricksen's ears, turning into blah, blah, blah. It was irrelevant. "I really don't care. Shut up and help me find those kids."

Baum raised his eyebrows and gestured to the figures flitting in and out of street lights. "Sir, we're not going to find them in the middle of this. We'll just have a lot of angry parents on our hands. Like that girl…."

"Fine, book us a room at the motel. I'll find them."

Baum's look said he'd believe it when he saw it, but he turned away without a word.

Henricksen rounded the same corner he'd seen the boys take. The tag-players were all dressed in black or camo, so he could rule those out. The Winchesters were wearing flannel, drab colors but they should still stand out among all the black. There! Henricksen spotted a mop of messy hair and a brown jacket. There was a kid who had come to this game unprepared.

"Winchester! Stop!"

Sam spun around and stared at Henricksen, eyes wide. His eyes shifted in all directions, taking in his resources. He opened his mouth and bellowed, "There's a grown-up messing with our game!"

Several figures stopped and spun around, staring. Henricksen held up his badge. "It's ok, kids, I'm a-"

"Kill the lawyer!" Henricksen didn't know where the shout came from. Someone crowed, and a half-dozen voices joined in.

"Yaaaaa!" The sound was eerie, more like a wild tribe of cannibals than a pack of small-town teens. Every kid in sight stopped, turned, and charged at Henricksen. They collided against him, battering him with their fists. "No grown-ups allowed!"

"Hey!" A shrill whistle rang out over the tumult, and suddenly the kids fell away, mumbling apologies. Ms. Trickle came to Henricksen's side, a middle-aged man in John Deer pajamas with a police utility belt wrapped around his robe blinking owlishly in her wake.

"What the Hell was that?" Henricksen demanded. He stared at the retreating kids, then back at the social worker. "I'm not a lawyer. Do I look like a lawyer?"

Ms. Trickle made no effort to hide her smirk. "I take it you haven't seek Hook? It's a movie about Neverland, and you just earned yourself a starring role. Agent Henricksen, Sergeant Culver. You wanted to speak with the police?"

Henricksen held out his hand to show the man his badge, but it was empty. He patted his pocket, then his other pocket. They were both empty. No badge, and no wallet. Henricksen's hand dropped to his gun, and he clasped the handle in relief. It was still there.

Henricksen wondered if there was an age-limit for who could be on the FBI most wanted list, because in his mind, Sam Winchester was working his way to the top.

"Sergeant, I am requesting the arrest of one Dean Winchester, for use of a fake ID, and the arrest of Sam Winchester. For theft."

Ms. Trickle raised an eyebrow. "Theft?"

"Little rat stole my wallet. And my badge."

Sergeant Culver scrubbed his eyes and yawned. "Agent, it's late. The kids will be doing this," he gestured at the chaos still surging around them, "for at least another hour. No way am I tracking down a pair of teenagers here and now. You say the ID was to prove he was eighteen? Didn't even try to buy booze? Go home. Get some sleep. Check the church lost-and-found in the morning. It was probably just an innocent prank, I'm sure it will turn up."

"Innocent? There is nothing innocent about these kids!"

The Sergeant just waved his hand and stumbled back towards his home. Ms. Trickler gave him a 'what can you do?' shrug. "My part here is done, agent. The minor is in the care of an adult, so unless you're reporting that the child has been abused, it has nothing to do with me."

Henricksen watched her vanish around the corner, and rubbed his hand through his hair. It was starting to thin at the top. Maybe he should just admit defeat and shave it all. But defeat was not in Henricksen's vocabulary. He turned in a circle, taking in the scene from all angles. There had to be a way to catch those kids.

 **Note:** What will Henricksen do next? Where will Sam and Dean end up? More to come soon. Please review!


	7. What Would Dean Do?

**Chapter 7: Lock-in**

Sam ran, heart pounding, clutching the stolen wallet, cuffs and badge, and giggling all the way. He didn't usually enjoy breaking the rules, that was Dean's thing. But there was something about the FBI agent's self-assured swagger that made Sam want to push his buttons. His I'm-the-boss attitude ignited something reckless in Sam, something that had been growing larger the closer he got to this thing called 'puberty'.

Dean would be proud.

Dean was nowhere to be seen. A sinking feeling wormed through his stomach. He had been too focused on the FBI agent, Sam hadn't paid any attention to his brother.

Uh-oh. Sam could hear the lecture now. First, from Dean, then a nearly identical tirade from Dad when he got back.

Briefly, Sam wondered what that nice foster-home the FBI agent had promised would be like. If he turned himself in, he could pretend he'd just gotten caught, instead of admitting to Dad that he'd lost his brother.

The idea of the triumphant glint in Agent Henricksen's eye was enough to stop that line of thought. Sam wasn't going to let the agent win. No way, no how.

What now? Sam stared at his stolen goods, the adrenaline high crashing under the weight of reason. I am in so much trouble. This wasn't the kind of thing he normally did. _But Dean does_. Dean broke the rules all the time, and got away with it more often that not.

 _Think like Dean. Think like Dean. What would Dean do_?

There was a rustle in the tree above him. A flashlight swept across his face. A kid about his age, skinny and dressed in hunter's camouflage, perched on a plank of wood lodged between the beams of the tree. "Gotcha!"

Sam froze, caught. What to do now? Act like you belong. It always worked for Dean.

The kid reached for a rope and swung to the ground to take a closer look at Sam. "Hey, I don't know you."

In a bigger town, that wouldn't mean anything. Here, it meant everything. It meant Sam was a stranger, because here, everyone knew everyone.

"Uh, yeah. I'm new. I thought I'd come out and play." Sam grinned hopefully.

"I'm Shea. Nice to meet you." The kid held out his hand to shake. He was short and skinny, with a sly grin. "Are you coming to the lock-in too?"

"Lock-in?" Sam repeated cautiously. He was pretty sure that locking a kid in anything was illegal.

"Yeah, it's a giant sleepover. It's at the church, but it's actually lots of fun. The pastor is pretty cool, and there's pizza and candy and movies and stuff."

"Stuff?" Like, a safe place to sleep, and maybe a phone that Sam could use. Perfect. "Sounds like fun, but won't the adults notice I shouldn't be there?"

Shea shrugged. "Nah, there's tons of kids there."

Shea passed Sam his flashlight and they worked together, tagging kids in the dark, until a loud whistle sounded out, and everyone streamed toward a large building, the double-doors flung wide. Sam blinked in the fluorescent lighting. The place didn't look like any church he had seen before. There were no pews, no crosses, and no organ. It was just a giant room with a basketball hoop at one end and a circle of comfy chairs at the other. Pizza, soda, and candy lay out on a set of folding tables. Pre-teen heaven.

Shea snagged a candy bar, filled Sam's hands with sweets, and settled them in a corner with several other boys to play a game called spoons. Sam and Shea were wrestling over the last bit of cutlery when a loud crashing sound rang out over the room.

 _Bang_!

All heads whipped around to stare. The FBI agent from the motel stood in the doorway, eyes flashing. Sam immediately let go of the spoon and threw a blanket over his head and shoulders. Henricksen looked read to shake down every kid in the room. The pastor stepped forward, face set.

"This is a private party, sir. You need to leave."

"I'm Agent Henricksen, FBI. I have to search this building. There's a wanted fugitive hiding in here."

A gasp ran through the room. Shea leaned forward, watching and munching on candy as if this were an action movie. "Whoa. Cool."

"There are only children here."

"The fugitive is a kid!"

The pastor's frown deepened, unfazed by Henricksen's ferocity. "Unless you have a badge to show me, sir, I must insist you leave."

"The kid took my badge!"

The pastor pointed firmly to the door. "No badge, no access. Come back with a warrant."

Henricksen's face twitched, but he turned and left.

"Wow. What'd you do to him?" Shea asked in a hushed town.

"Me?" Sam looked around the group. They had lost all interest in their card game, and were staring at him. "I-uh…"

 _What would Dean do_?

Sam did his best imitation of Dean's grin and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. "I stole his stuff. You guys can keep them, if you promise not to tell."

"Sweet!" Four boys chorused at once. There followed an argument about who go to keep the cuffs, which was shortly settled with a extra-vicious round of spoons.

"So, who's your new friend?" Sam looked up from his cards to see the pastor hovering over them, eyes fixed on Sam. "I don't think we've met. I'm pastor Joe."

"Uh-hi."

"I just had a very interesting conversation with Ms. Trickler. Are you Sam?"

 _What would Dean do_? He'd spin a good lie, and flash that grin, the one that had gotten him out of ten detentions as six different schools. Sam knew he didn't have the grin, and he was a terrible liar.

"Shea invited me. Can't I stay?" He bit his lips, letting his eyes grow wide.

Joe sat down next to him. "You have to have a permission slip to stay here, Sam. Does your father know where you are?"

"Dad taught me to take care of myself."

"That's not what I asked, Sam." Pastor Joe waited for a moment, then sighed. "Alright, I won't put you out tonight. Just know this. If there isn't an adult here to pick you up in the morning, you'll have to go with DCFS."

Foster care. It didn't matter if it was the FBI or another grown up, all roads led to the same end. He was caught.

Sam frowned. "Do I get a phone call?"

 **NOTE:** What happened to Dean? Who will find Sam first come morning? Please review!


	8. Mile Marker Five

**Chapter 8: Mile Marker Five**

It was far too early to be awake. Dean could tell that just by the ache in his head. People weren't meant to be awake at this time of day. He cracked his eyes open. The low angle of the light coming through the windows confirmed it. It couldn't be later than five am. Dean settled back into his wallow and pressed his eyes firmly closed.

There was no point in getting up yet. Sammy was a sensible boy and would wait until the sun was actually all the way up before seeking Dean at their meet-up point. Mile marker five, east of town. Some families prayed before dinner. Winchesters recited contingency plans so they would always know how to find each other in an emergency.

It was why Dean had crashed in this barn last night. He'd reached the meet up point, found no Sam, and knew that his brother had found someplace comfy to squat. Probably used those puppy-dog-eyes to get in the door, might even have a hot breakfast waiting for him.

While Dean slept on hay, in a barn that had horses. Real, live, stinky horses. Who kept horses anymore, anyway?

The noise that had woken Dean in the first place echoed across the barn, a loud, metallic banging. Dean knew that sound. It was the sound of someone doing car-repair work.

Farmers. To them, 5 am was like waking up at noon.

Dean, sighed, and opened his eyes. If some farmer was fixing a gimp engine, it wouldn't be quiet enough to sleep again anytime soon. Dean waited for the string of curses that usually accompanied any mechanical project, but all he heard was a gentle humming.

Dean sat up, wiping straw and sleep from his eyes, and stared. The scene looked like it belonged in one of his beloved Western's, not real life. There were four horses in the barn, with a big, black buggy parked next to them. A man in a round-collared shirt, complete with suspenders, stood on the far side of the room, head bent over his project.

Dean closed his eyes, and stared again. The scene hadn't changed. Either he'd landed on the set of a period movie, or this farm belonged to one of those old-fashioned religious groups. There was no camera crew in sight. Dean grimaced and moved softy toward the door. Better if no one knew he had ever been here.

Thunk! The humming stopped, replaced by a swear word Dean had never heard before. At least, he assumed it was a swear word, it was full of gutturals and weird vowels and came out in an aggravated tone. German?

Dean glanced sideways to see what the fuss was about, and stopped dead in his tracks, horror welling up inside him.

"No! Stop!" Dean lunged forward and snatched a hammer out of the other man's hand. Other boy. He didn't look any older than Dean.

"Hey! Dat's mine!" The other boy grabbed for the hammer. Dean held it firmly out of reach.

There were some things he just couldn't stand by and let happen.

"You're gonna ruin her, man! What are you doing?"

"Putting all this together." The boy gestured to the rusting metal frame, greasy engine, and assorted parts scattered around them. It was all clearly supposed to become a truck one day.

"Yeah, well, you're gonna screw up your engine if you go at it like that!" Dean put the hammer out of reach and picked up another tool. "This is what you use, and gently."

The other boy stared at him, beaming as if Dean had jumped out from under the Christmas tree. "You know how to build a truck?"

Dean grinned, and shrugged. His chest swelled with pride. "Well, yeah." He held out his hand. Any man who recognized the value of the heap of scrap around them was a man worth knowing. "My name's Dean."

The other boy shook his hand firmly, his grin threatening to split his face in half. "I am Heinrich. My parents, they said I could have a car, but only if I build it myself." He gestured at a book lying open on top of his pike of parts. "It is more difficult than I thought."

Possibility hung between them. The air shimmered with promise. Dean smiled broadly, a plan assembling itself in his mind. "Heinrich, my man, today is your lucky day! You need someone who can help you build a truck. I just need a little help with something else…"

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	9. Payback

**Chapter Nine: Payback**

Return to the scene. It was rule number one, when a trail went cold. Return to where it all started. Victor surveyed the Winchester's room. He'd made it his for the night. No need to rent another.

Agent Baum was one door down, snoring the night away. He had flat out refused to go back to the church with Henricksen and display his FBI badge so that they could confiscate the kid. They would have to wait for morning, and fight it out with social services then.

 _Damn that kid_!

Time for a little payback. There was nothing wrong with mixing a little revenge with work. Henricksen had every right to search the room for evidence, including the duffel bags the kids had left behind. He'd long ago lost any embarrassment over going through people's private things. He'd searched enough underwear drawers in the line of duty to know they weren't as interesting as you'd think.

Sam Winchester's personal things were more boring than most. Victor expected a hoard of toys and flashy clothes, but all he found was a lonely model airplane and a pile of flannel. The stack of library cards from ten different states and a worn-out Roal Dahl book told of a simple, if mobile, lifestyle. Dean's bag added a stack of cassette tapes and a walkman to the pile, but nothing that screamed "I was bought with illegal credit cards."

John Winchester stole thousands every year. If he didn't spoil his kids with toys and games and trendy clothes, what did he spend all of the money on?

Victor dozed off with the contents of the bags strewn about him, a sea of child-sized socks and flannel.

 _Click_.

The sound that woke him was soft, but threatening; the click of a gun, preparing to fire. It brought Henricksen out of his doze more effectively than a train whistle. He opened his eyes to see the barrel of a gun staring back, leveled at his heart. His gun. A pair of steely eyes fixed on him and a stern voice demanded, "Where are my children."

The resemblance between John and Sam was clear. They had the same malevolent glint in their eye, the one that promised trouble and not the fun kind. _I found John Winchester_! Who else could this angry father be?

Victor kept his voice soft and nonthreatening. It was one thing to face down a murderer, it was quite another to survive the wrath of an angry parent.

"I don't know."

John looked pointedly at the children's things scattered across the bed, then back at Victor. "Try again."

It was a fair point.

"They ran off. I don't know where they went. One might be at the church."

"Church?" The eyes narrowed. "Why are you in the room where I left my sons?"

Victor knew the wrong answer would cost him his life. So. Truth. A statement so ridiculous it couldn't help but be true.

"I was searching a crime scene. I have a warrant for your arrest, and I'm here to execute it. Put the gun down, and put your hands on your head."

John frowned, and lowered the gun slightly. "State Police?"

Henricksen let himself breath again. "FBI."

"Huh. Where's your badge?"

Henricksen sucked in a furious breath. "Your kid stole it off me."

John grinned, finally visibly relaxing. "That sounds like Dean."

"It was the little one, Sam."

John cocked his head, and the gun raised up to heart-level again. "Sam? What did you do to piss off Sam?"

 _Ring_! The phone rattled against the incoming call. John glared at Henricksen, a silent warning to stay put, then moved sideways to pick up the phone without allowing his aim to waver.

"Winchester here. Jim! The boys didn't answer when I called. Tell me you-Oh, good." John's shoulders slumped in relief. "Both safe? Ran away from the FBI huh?" John quirked and eyebrow at Henricksen. Then he frowned.

"Dean called you from where? I didn't think they had phones." A pause, then, "He wants to what?" John put a hand to his face and shook his head. Henricksen leaned forward, but had no hope of hearing the man on the other end of the line. John smirked. "Well, that's….different. And Sam?" Now, John's eyebrows shot up to meet his hairline. "He's actually at a church? Did both my boys catch religion the same night? Thanks for the warning, but no need to worry about me. I found the FBI agent."

John paused again. "No, I can't quit now. I've got a good lead, and we've got two more dead. Have Dean check in with you from now on. Every evening. At ten. On the dot. Right. Thanks, Jim."

John hung up the phone, then turned to glare at Henricksen. "Put that stuff back in the bags and toss them to me. Agent."

Victor's thought spun, trying to process the half-conversation he'd just heard. Two dead? Can't quit? "What kind of job have you got to finish? If you're working, why all the fake credit cards."

"None of your business." John grabbed the duffels and gave Henricksen one last glare. Then he was gone, slipping out the door as silently as a ghost.

The phone rang again. Henricksen snatched it up, hoping 'Jim' would be on the other end again. His wife's voice assaulted his ears, cranky and querulous. "Victor, why did the credit card company just call me to verify a charge of five thousand dollars for a new TV, stereo and gaming system to be delivered to Roseville Christian Church?"

Henricksen wrapped both hands around the phone, wringing it as if it were a Winchester neck. _That kid_! "Tell them it's a fake charge, my card was stolen."

"Aren't you supposed to be catching the guys who do that?"

"I'm working on it."

Henricksen slammed the phone down and glared out the window. The dawn was coming fast, the sun a red flame on the horizon. He'd waited long enough. John Winchester had made one thing very clear. He would do just about anything for his kids. Even risk FBI capture to save them. All Victor had to do was beat Dean to that church. Sam would make the perfect bait.

 _I'm coming for you, Sam Winchester. It's payback time_.

 **Please Review!**


	10. Getaway

**Chapter Ten: Getaway**

Mile-marker five. Dean would be waiting, Sam knew. If he hadn't made it to the marker last night, he would certainly be there by now. He'd be cold and grumpy and need breakfast and coffee It was not good to keep Dean away from food, Sam had learned this the hard way.

But Sam had cornered a spot on the couch, soft and squishy and despite a sticky soda-spill, still cleaner than the motel rooms they usually stayed it. Sam was curled up under a piled of blankets, nesting comfortably. Dawn had come and gone and the sun was rising in the sky, but Sam just didn't want to move.

Besides, the doors were locked and set with an alarm. The pastor was sleeping in a recliner right under the alarm box. Sam would literally have to stand on him to disarm it.

Around him, the room slowly came awake. Kids shifted and chattered and shook off caffeine-hangovers. Pastor Joe rolled out of his chair, blinking blearily. Sam waited as the pastor shuffled toward the coffee pot. He slithered out of the blankets as soon as his back was turned. He'd only made it halfway to the alarm box when he heard his name.

"Sam! Would you help me out over here?"

Every kid knew the difference between an actual question, and an order disguised as a question. He was kept busy laying out plates for breakfast (an order of donuts was on the way), until Ms. Trickle arrived. This time, she was dressed in a suit with an official badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck, her face set with determination. Agent Henricksen marched behind her,. Agent Baum trotted behind, his badge already in his hand.

"Pastor, I'm here to collect Sam." Ms. Trickle gave Sam a warm, you-can-trust-me smile. Sam narrowed his eyes, considering. He didn't have an escape option.

"We're here to detain Sam for questioning. FBI." Henricksen gestured to his partner, who waved his badge high.

All of the other kids were staring. Shea's mouth has hanging open. It was worst than the first day at a new school. It had been less than 24 hours, and he was already the freak. Sam ducked behind pastor Joe.

"Don't worry, Sam. He can't take you into custody, and I have a nice home ready for you." Ms. Trickle's voice was soft and reassuring.

Sam stared at up the social worker, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. She thought he was scared of the FBI? Sam knew he'd never be in real trouble with the agent, not like Dean. Dean was big enough they could arrest him and take him away. Sam still had little-kid immunity.

"I can to take him, he stole my badge." Clearly, Agent Henricksen didn't know when he'd been beaten.

"Ah, yes." Pastor Joe ducked down under the kitchen counter and emerged with a wallet and black badge case. "Here you are, agent. Sorry about the confusion last night. These turned up in the lost and found this morning. I'm afraid I can't say who found them, but I'm glad they turned them in."

"They were stolen." Henricksen bit out the words, as if the sharp edges around them might make them mean more to the group assembled around him. "An order was placed on my credit card from this church."

Pastor Joe's face turned grim. "I've kept an eye on Sam all night. That could have been anyone. I'll have a talk with the kids." There was a promise of a stern lecture in his voice.

Henricksen's mouth crinkled, and he looked away, as if asking heaven for help. When no bright light enveloped him, he lowered his voice to a more cooperative tone. "Ms. Trickle, it is important that I meet with Sam-"

"Yes, Agent. I understand. We will arrange it, when the legal advocate arrives. Which won't be until tomorrow. Today, I need to get Sam settled."

"I can't wait until tomorrow!"

Sam giggled. Henricken was worse at holding his temper than some of Dad's grumpier hunting buddies. Henricksen glared at Sam, but he just looked back with big eyes. Ms. Trickle gave him a sympathetic smile, his defender against the mean old man.

"I'm afraid you can't question him without proper counsel present, he is a minor."

"There is a dangerous criminal loose, and this nonsense is holding up-"

"Taking proper care of a child is never nonsense, Agent!"

Sam wiggled to keep hold of his laughter. Henricksen had done that one all to himself! He flashed Hendrickson a smug smirk, which Ms. Trickle would never see. For her, he would only ever be innocent little Sammy.

Baum raised an eyebrow, noting the expressions flowing across Sam's face. Sam gave him a cool stare, then let his eyes go wide. Innocent little Sammy. Really.

Baum held up his hands between DCFS and FBI before a true war could break out. "Let's just take a step back and thing about this. Maybe we can-"

"Donuts!" A cheery voice called out. A boy in Amish clothes stood in the doorway, holding several boxes in his arms that all smelled liked fried, sugary goodness.

"Yay!" A cheer went up from the kids. Pastor Joe hastily moved to intercept the boxes before the pre-teens could pounce on the delivery boy.

Sam eyed the open door, and the distracted adults. He slipped sideways, one step, two steps. No one noticed. Except Shea. He was grinning, like he he'd just gotten off the biggest roller coaster at Six Flags. Stuff like this just never happened in a small town like Roseville. He was thrilled. Sam grinned. At least one kid didn't think he was a freak. With a wink and a wave, Sam ran through the open doors.

And crashed into a strong arm, perfectly positioned to catch him in the chest. He tried to bounce away, but the arms held him tight.

"Sammy! It's me."

Sam stared up at Dean's grinning face, and hugged his brother tight. "Where were you?" As if it was all Dean's fault they'd gotten separated.

Dean winked and gestured toward the Amish buggy parked by the curb. "I've been busy. We can't go back to the motel, and Dad's got to finish this job. So I found us a hideout."

 **Please Review!**


	11. Catch that buggy!

**Chapter Eleven: Catch that Buggy!**

Never assume innocence. The bystander on the corner, the child across the street, anyone can be a criminal. The words had been spoken by an agent headed for his retirement party Victor's first day on the job. It wasn't the way the law worked, but it was how a smart law-man stayed alive.

There was something about the never-ending corn fields that was tampering with his reflexes. In this sleepy, unthreatening town, Victor had forgotten the first rule. Anyone can be a criminal. Even the Amish boy delivering donuts.

"You don't have any grounds to question Sam before legal counsel arrives!"

"He has information that I need!"

"Um-" Baum raised his hand. "Where is he?" All argument stopped and four adults wheeled in circles. There were kids bouncing on the couch, kids stuffing donuts in their mouths, kids having a war with bottles of spray-cheese.

"Hey! Cut it out!" The Pastor's voice was surprisingly assertive. "Where's Sam?"

No one answered. Most kids had their mouths full of donuts. Or cheese.

Donuts.

"Donuts!" Henricksen spun and barreled through the doors just in time to see a buggy pull away from the curb, three figures perched in the front seat. "Stop that buggy!"

All agents dreamed of the adrenaline-fueled car chase, sirens blaring, weaving in and out of traffic and dodging pedestrians in pursuit of the criminal with the money, hostage, drugs, take your pick. They practiced in a lot full of plastic orange cones and cardboard cutouts, waiting for the day it would happen in real life.

The mental image never included a horse-drawn buggy with an orange 'slow moving vehicle' sign on the back. This would be the shortest car-chase in the history of car chases.

The donut delivery boy cast a glance over his shoulder at the agent running behind him, and slapped the reigns to urge the horse onward. Dean tossed him a cheery wave and wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders.

Henricksen turned at the corner, running the other way. He slammed into the car door, slid the key into the ignition, and waited for the engine to blast to life.

Nothing happened. The car sat silent and unresponsive. Code blue, no hope of recovery.

"No! No! No! Come on!" Henricksen clicked the key forward again and again. Nothing. He slammed his fists into the steering wheel, popped the hood, and bent over the engine. The battery was unhooked. The sparkplugs were gone, along with the distributor cap.

Sam and Dean Winchester had vanished into the cornfields.

Breathing exercises were another key tactic that old retiree had shared on his last day. Henricksen drew in a deep breath, counted to ten, and let it out again. Throwing a fit wouldn't get anything done. Step one; find the local auto shop. Thankfully, like everything in town, it was within easy walking distance.

An hour later, Victor turned the key again. The engine thrummed to life. Victor sighed, and turned the engine off again. The kids were long gone, and he had no way to track them. Amish didn't even have phones.

"Car trouble?" Baum bent his head to the window, a donut in one hand. "I got the address where that Amish kid lives." Baum worked his mouth around a bit of donut. "They say you can smell it for miles. A group of Amish women sit around every morning frying these things. Have you ever had a fresh donut, boss? Wonderful." Baum took a deep breath, and smiled. He held out a fully intact donut. "Got one for you."

"You got an address?" Henricksen repeated, staring. He grabbed the donut and took a bite. It was still warm. "These are good. Right, get in. We're going to pick up some kids, before that social worker finds them."

"Ah, about that, boss. I got an age on the older kid. He's sixteen."

"How did you do that?"

Baum shrugged, as if this sort of brilliance was no big deal. "I called the Lawrence, Kansas records department. They looked up his birth certificate. Dean is 16, Sam is 12. They're both minors. We don't have grounds to detain either."

"They stole my wallet and sabotaged my car."

Baum shrugged again. "You don't have any evidence of either, not enough to imprison a minor. I talked to headquarters, too. They said we can't detain the kids, not on the evidence we have now. Ms. Trickle talked to the Amish family. She said that as long as Sam and Dean have a safe place to stay, there's nothing she can do."

"Amish. Huh." Henricksen drummed his hands against the steering wheel. "You ever been on stakeout, Baum?"

Baum shook his head warily and took a step backwards. Henricksen grinned. "You might want to get a few more donuts. We are going to keep a close eye on those kids, and the minute one steps out of line, we'll be there."

And this time, he would be prepared.

 **NOTE: Hope you're having as much fun reading this as I am writing it. I've got a few fun ideas for Sam and Dean's next run-in with Henricksen. Please review!**


	12. I am Batman

**Chapter Twelve: I am Batman**

 _I am Batman_. Rescue, sabotage, and a quick getaway-it was better than a comic book. The plan was coming together beautifully. The donut delivery had gone off without a hitch. Sam sat in the buggy next to his brother, and the Heinrich urged the horse forward.

Dean tossed a cheery wave at the FBI agent. There was one advantage of the slow speed of the buggy-he could watch the man's angry expression longer. Then, the agent veered around the corner. Headed for his parked car.

"Dean! He's gonna catch us! That lady already has a foster home set up for me." Sam bounced, making the entire buggy rock.

Dean chuckled and slapped Sam on the back. "I've got it covered, Sammy." Dean only wished he could see the agent's face when he tried to start his car. He would miss watching the fun.

Instead, Dean's eyes settled on Sam. All four limbs were in place and he wasn't bleeding. Good. Sam had turned a scathing look in his big brother. Not good.

"You planned to run away from the FBI in a buggy?"

A few years ago, Sam would have trusted in Dean's awesome brilliance. He had once lived in awe of his older brother, never questioning. He knew that his brother could handle anything. If Dean said they could fly, it was so.

The broken arm at the end of that adventure may have something to do with the distrustful look on Sam's face now.

"I told you, I got it covered. Pulled his spark plugs."

Sam fell back in his seat, laughing. "Awesome."

They both paused for a moment to savor the vision of the big FBI agent reduced to tears when his car failed to start. Sam turned to Heinrich, staring up at the Amish boy. Heinrich smiled back and held out his hand to shake.

"Hello."

"Hi." Sam frowned and shifted closer to Dean. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Why is he helping us?"

"My man Heinrich here is trying to fulfill his dreams, Sammy. Dreams of being an English boy with a truck that has a motor and everything. No one will help him, not his parents, not his friends. But guess who will help?"

"You're going to steal a truck?"

Still no trust. That was just because Sammy's tiny intellect couldn't see the magnitude of Dean's cleverness.

"Nah, Heinrich's got all the parts. I'm going to help him build one."

No proud smile, not congratulations on his brilliance. Sam pursed his lips. "That's going to take a while, Dean. We have to find Dad."

"I talked to him this morning. He's got to finish this hunt, he doesn't know how long it will take. Until he's done, we'll stay with Heinrich."

Dean could see the wheels spinning in Sam's head, sorting through all the reasons why this was a terrible idea. He squinted at Dean, and pinched his arm.

"Hey!"

"Just making sure it's really you. You know the Amish don't have electricity. Or running water. Right? And no TV. You want to stay in a place with no TV?"

Sam watched carefully for Dean's answer, his weight shifted slightly, ready to jump if Dean said the wrong thing.

Dean rested his arm across Sammy's shoulders. "I'm not that crazy, Sam. One wilderness survival trek with Bobby was enough. They have a generator. Hot water, electric lights, even an air conditioner. But no TV. We'll be busy helping Heinrich with his truck."

"Me?"

"Well…" They both knew that was a bad idea. Ever since the great radiator fiasco of 1992 (Dean still had scars from the burns), Sam had not been allowed near the Impala's engine. Or any other motor. "I'm sure they can find a job for you."

Sam had many ways to express his displeasure with his big brother, and all could be done from the back seat of the car, out of Dad's line of sight. Over the years, he'd developed them into an art form. There was the classic eye roll. The sharp look that rivaled Dean's best knives. There was the hand gestured that said, 'just stop.'

Today, Sam just buried his face in his hands and shook his head.

"Now, now, Sammy. Chin up. I need those puppy dog eyes in working order so we can sell this to Heinrich's mom."

The glare that Sam answered him with was more at home on a Mastiff than a Basset hound.

Dean ruffled Sam's hair. "That's alright, you've got…what, twenty minutes to work on it?"

A car zipped past them, covering the visible terrain in a matter of seconds, and vanished over the hill. The horse trotted on, unfazed. Sam's face fell. Dean patted him on the back.

"That's more like it!"

 **Note: Are you having fun with this story? Please review!**


	13. Bunny Ears

**Chapter 13: Bunny Ears**

Sam lay across his bed, feet kicked up against the wall, staring at the room upside-down. He squinted, making everything go blurry, but it didn't help. He didn't know what had happened to his brother during their night apart, but Sam was pretty sure brainwashing was involved. These weren't really Amish, they were some strange cult that had recruited Dean and would soon try to turn Sam as well.

It was the only way any of this made sense.

Because they were living in a barn, and Dean was grinning from ear to ear.

Ok, the piece of pie on the plate in front of him might explain the grin. Sam stomach gurgled, attempting to process the mountain of food he had just finished. It was good. Heinrich's mom had sent them a giant tub of chicken and noodles, and both boys had eaten until their stomachs would burst.

It was home-cooked. Not from a can or a box or a restaurant, and it was good.

Then there was the pie, two pieces, and Dean eating them both. He didn't seem to care that Heinrich's mom had refused to let them stay in the house. Where there was air condition and plumbing.

The loft wasn't that bad, really. It had real beds, even if they were bunk beds. They could barely smell the horses up here, but every once in a while a high-pitched neigh would rattle through the floorboards. There was no getting around it.

They were living in a barn.

"Hmmm!" Dean was making happy noises over his pie. "Sammy, you sure you don't want yours? This is good!"

"I don't like pie, Dean." It didn't matter how many times Sam said it. Dean knew everything about him. Sometimes, he knew what Sam was going to say before Sam even said it. But he could never remember that Sam just didn't like pie.

No TV. No plumbing. No air conditioning. Sam had stayed in worse places. There were no roaches, and no funny green patches of mold on the wall. In all fairness, it was probably cleaner than half the hotel rooms they had stayed in. Sam kicked at the wall. Maybe he should have gone with Ms. Trickle for a few days. At least he would have something to do in foster care. Here, he didn't even have a book.

Sam rolled over with a sigh and poked at the pile of junk in the corner. The people who owned this place before the Amish had left a few things behind, and Heinrich's family had stuffed it all up here. There were some old Ninja-Turtle action figures with broken limbs and a Hungry Hippo's game board missing all its marbles. A few tapes with their insides chewed up, and a bulky black box…

Sam sat up straighter and turned the box around to reveal a shiny gray screen.

"Dean!" He squealed to loud Dean dropped his plate and pulled out his knife.

"Sammy! What?" Dean come to hover over Sam's shoulder, then patted him on the back. "Nice! I bet I can get that working."

"What's the point." Sam sat back with a scowl. "We won't get any reception."

Dean picked up a bent wire from behind the TV. "Don't need to. They've got an electric socket for the lights in here, that's all we need." Dean's mouth collapsed into a line and he leaned forward to work. Sam scooted backwards out of his way.

Half an hour later, the TV was perched on an old dresser, the screen flickering between fuzz and a grainy picture. Dean twisted the bunny ears from side to side, trying to find the sweet spot where the picture would be clear. Sam split his attention between Dean's delicate balancing act, and Heinrich, perched on the ladder to the loft, watching with mouth half-open in awe.

"Ha-ha!" The sound of static vanished and Dean pumped his fist into the air. The picture was clear, if black-and-white. Dean turned up the sound, and Sam heard the familiar voice of Will Smith singing about his life in Bel-Air.

"It's on!" Heinrich practically vibrated with excitement. "Can we come watch?"

"We?" Sam crawled to the edge of the lost and peered over to see an assembly of bonnets and hats below. All teenagers. All staring eagerly up the ladder at the forbidden fruit above. "I thought you don't watch TV."

"We can't own a TV. We can watch it if someone else has it." Heinrich bounced on the ladder. "Do you mind? I told my sister Anna that you were fixing the TV, and she told some friends…"

Dean came to the edge of the loft and took in the crowd below. His eyes crinkled, calculating. "I don't know, Heinrich. I worked hard to get this TV up and running. Sammy is a growing boy. I'm already working for you for room and board, we don't have a lot of extra cash."

Sam bit his lip. Laughing out loud would ruin the moment.

Heinrich fished in his pocket. "Fifty cents each?"

"Fifty cents?" Dean shook his head. "Heinrich, I have to pay at least five dollars for a night at the movies, and here I am letting you into my home."

"It's my home."

"My loft, which I have earned by my own hard work, sweat, and blood," Dean continued without missing a beat. "I think that's worth five dollars."

"One dollar," Heinrich parried like a seasoned haggler.

"Four."

"Two and a half."

"Two each, three for couples."

Heinrich considered, glanced over his shoulder, and nodded. Dean held out his hand to shake. "Done! My loft is your loft. Come on in!" The line of somber-clad Amish teens moved up the ladder, all of them acting surprisingly like any other teenagers going for a night at the movies.

"Hey!" Sam scrambled back to this spot on the bed, with a comfy pillow and a good view, before Dean could sell that, too. He scowled at his brother. "I still get to pick the channel."

"Uh-huh. Yeah, sure." Dean quirked an eyebrow, not glancing up from the pile of cash growing in his hand. "Heinrich, my man, this could be the beginning of another beautiful partnership. Do you have a place were we can make popcorn?"

Note: Please review!


	14. Blood, Sweat, and Fears

**Chapter 14: Blood, Sweat, and Fears**

It had sounded like a wonderful plan. Live on an Amish farm, spend his days working on an old engine, hang with a friendly guy his own age. The FBI would never find him here, right? He'd spend his days rebuilding an engine, right?

Dean had been wrong about the FBI. The agents had located the Amish farm two days after Dean and Sam arrived. Thankfully, Dad had put a call in to DCFS first. They were living under adult supervision. They hadn't done anything to be arrested for. So DCFS couldn't take them to foster care, and the FBI couldn't arrest them. But they could watch. Every day, Dean saw the black sedan parked alongside the cornfield across the street, watching.

It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He'd been wrong about the mechanic work, too. Well, not entirely. He did get to work with Heinrich on the old truck, and Heinrich was a nice guy. But Heinrich had chores to do, and they took most of the day. If Dean didn't help, they had no time to work on the engine.

Which was how he'd landed himself here, muscles aching, sweat dripping from his face, pushing on a stump while Heinrich stood up front, slapping the reigns on a huge horse and yelling for him to pull. It was the same every day, hours spent clearing a new field for tending to the crops, or the horses, or the farm tools. It was almost like Heinrich's parents wanted to keep them too busy to get any real work done on that truck.

Cousin Virgil came over the hill, waving his arms. He mimed something at Heinrich, who waved back and nodded. He let the reigns go slack and patted the horses' back. "Time for a break, Dean, you have a phone call."

"Oh, thank goodness." Dean leaned against the stump to catch is breath. A phone call meant a trip to Heinrich's cousin's family store-they owned the only phone in the Amish community. He would have at least twenty minutes to sit still in the buggy. Then, ten more to sit in the air conditioning, and maybe a cold soda to boot.

It was the simple things in life that mattered.

Dean paused on the threshold of Cedar Pines Discount Groceries and let the air-conditioned interior wash over him. Ahhhh. Better than a cold beer after a long night hunting.

"Dean's having loads of fun."

Dean's ears automatically picked Sammy's voice of out of the thrum of background noise. He was sitting behind the cash register, sucking on rock candy and talking animatedly into the phone. "He goes out to play with Heinrich all day, and then they work on the truck at night. Unless we play volleyball. Everybody here loves volleyball. My arms hurt more than they did after that poltergeist threw a cabinet door at me."

Dean winced. Sammy should know better than to talk about hunting in front of civilians. But no one even glanced in his direction. The Amish just assumed he was talking about a strange 'English' past-time, and the customers assumed he was talked about a strange Amish superstition.

Ok, so maybe Sam was right. Life on an Amish farm was pretty fun. He'd worked hard all day every day, collapsed in bed unable to move because he was so sore, but it hadn't felt like work. It felt like hanging out with friends.

"Oh, Dean's here now." Sam handed the phone to Dean. "Dad wants you."

Dean glanced at the black sedan parked outside. Amish life was fun, sure, but it was only a matter of time before those agents found an excuse to pick him, or Sam, up. But Dad had burned the bones already, and it had done no good. Now, he was looking for an antique hammer in an area where everyone had antiques in their attic. Dean took the phone, and hoped for good news.

What he got was more work. He hung up the phone, took one last, deep breath of the cool air, and stepped outside to find his brother.

Sam was perched on the back end of a buggy in the parking lot, counting a wad of cash he'd pulled from his pocket. His cut of the TV money, and his pay for his work at the store. Dean was stuck in the fields with Heinrich, but Sammy had worked the puppy-eyes on Virgil's momma, and landed himself a sweet job behind the cash register.

Sam carefully did not look at the black sedan parked across the street, although this little show was entirely for Henricksen's benefit. A challenge to the agent to come over here, try to figure out where all that lovely cash came from, and give Sam a good excuse to call the home office with a complaint that could get the man fired.

They'd done this dance every day for a week now. Dean could see the agent turning red through the windshield, though whether it was the heat or Sam's antics, he couldn't tell. Sam usually

"Hey, Sammy." Dean settled next to Sam, his back to the agent. "Sammy, why are you picking on the FBI agent?"

"He's a bully."

"He was just doing his job."

"You hassle cops all the time."

"Yeah, that's not what you're doing. You've got some kind of feud going on with this guys, and I don't like it. This isn't like one of our prank wars. Don't take it too far."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Why not? It's not like he's a monster who could eat me. All he can do is arrest me. Then you and Dad will bust me out again."

"You know, most kids think getting arrested is a scary thing."

"Most kids don't hunt monsters, Dean."

"Right." Why should a kid who'd faced down a poltergeist be scared of a mere man with a gun and the ability to throw him into a tiny cell for a very long time? When Sam stuck to the books, he was brilliant. But when it came to people, Dean didn't know where the kid's head was. He'd tried to tell Dad this was a bad plan, but Dad had been firm. Sam was still too young and too little to go off with him all night, and Dad needed help tracking down this artifact. So.

"Sammy, I gotta go help Dad tonight. But I can't have the FBI following me."

Sam grinned. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Think you can keep his attention for a little while?"

Sam folded his wad of cash and shoved it back into his pocket. "I can do that. I gotta make a call." He tossed a cheery wave toward the black sedan before going back into the store.

Dean gave the agent across the street a smile and a half-hearted wave. _What have I done_?


	15. All in a day's work

**Chapter 15: All in a day's work**

Sam always got the worst jobs. He was the youngest, and the smallest, and Dad and Dean never let him do any of the interesting stuff. He had to put his books and toys away to help hunt, but it was always the same. Stand by the back door. Keep a lookout for the cops. Hold Dad's extra rifle. Keep the car running for a quick getaway. If the job description was, 'hurry up and wait', it fell to Sam.

Dean got all of the interesting jobs. He got to shoot at monsters, and follow Dad into creepy haunted houses or jump out at the werewolf in the middle of the woods. Normally, Sam would be jealous that Dean got to go off in the middle of the night with Dad to search for a haunted antique. If they were going to leave him behind, why couldn't they just leave him out of it altogether? But no, there was always a side job that Sam had to do. Or else people might die.

But tonight was different. Tonight, Sam had something interesting do it. Something really helpful. Some thing fun. Tonight, nothing could happen with the hunt until Sam did his part: distract the FBI agent so that Dean could get away.

It was a tall order. He had to make it look good enough that when the agent had to choose which kid to follow, he'd pick Sam. It had to look dangerous, and just a little bit illegal.

Dean seemed worried about that for some reason. "But don't actually do anything illegal, Sammy. Okay? Don't actually get arrested." Was his last warning before going back to work with Heinrich.

Five minutes later, Shea walked into the grocery store, following his mother on her daily errands and looking supremely bored. He had long ago lost interest in the novelty of the Amish and their store. His mom shopped here every week, along with all of the other local penny-pinchers. The food was all ridiculously cheap; stuff that sold for five dollars at a regular store was marked down to a quarter here.

That's because they weren't allowed to sell this stuff at a regular store. It was all expired, or dented, or damaged somehow. Sam had stocked a shelf yesterday full of cans that has passed their 'use by' date six months ago. He'd heard a farmer's wife telling her city-dwelling relatives that expirations dates were really just made-up anyway, and not based on any real science. Sam made a note to ask his science teacher about this when school started.

Shea didn't care how old the food was, he just didn't care about shopping, period. He brightened when he saw Sam, and proceeded to help stock shelves. Am asked about the project Shea was working on with his step-brother. Shea confirmed it could be ready for tonight. There followed a brief negotiation with Shea's mom, and the plan was set. They only a needed a few supplies. Which was how Sam found himself staring at the shelves of discount health and beauty products. He looked up at the nearest shopper. Ms. Trickle, her basket full of discount tacos and homemade pie crusts, watched him from across the aisle. She came by every could of days to spy on them. At least she was more discreet about it than the FBI. She actually bought stuff, and asked relevant questions.

"Sam? Is everything ok?"

"Yeah." Sam considered the canisters on the shelf in front of him. It was full of things that only girls would buy, and he needed an expert opinion. "Which do you think is the better brand of hairspray?"

"Hairspray?" Sam could see the question in Ms. Trickle's eyes as she regarded his shaggy mop, but she didn't say anything. She just pointed to a can. "This one, I think."

"And the worst?"

"Hmm." Her finger moved to a different brand. "This one is terrible."

Sam reached for the 'terrible' can. "Great. Thanks!"

Dean was already at the barn when Sam came home, bent over the truck with Heinrich, showing him where one of the itty-bitty parts went. It had a name and a purpose and a place. Dean had tried to teach him many times. But even though Sam could remember everything he read in a book, he could never remember anything about cars.

"Hi, Dean." Sam dropped the hairspray and a ten-pound sack of potatoes by the barn door. "Heinrich, can you tell your mom we'll need three plates for dinner? I have a friend coming over. Dean, can you make sure no one moves these?"

Dean blinked at the supplies. "What is all that?"

Sam grinned. "Part of the plan. Can I have your lighter?"

Dean's hand curled protectively around his jacket pocket. "No."

"Come on, Dean! I need a fire starter."

"Get your own."

"They didn't have any at the store."

"I have a box of matches," Heinrich put in.

Sam scrunched his nose, considering. "I guess that will work. We need a whole bunch." One match for every potato.

"Hairspray. Potatoes. Matches." Dean scratched his head. "What are you planning, Sammy?"

"That's for me to know, and Agent Henricksen to find out." Sam gave his brother a big grin, the kind that Dean gave him when he was planning something that he didn't want Dad to know about. "What time do you need to leave?"

 **NOTE: Hehehe. Who knows what involves hairspray, potatoes, and fire? Next chapter's gonna be fun! Sam v. Victor. Coming soon!**


	16. Potato vs Sock

**Chapter 16: Potato Vs. Sock**

Ten days. That was how long Victor had sat on the edge of this cornfield, watching Amish buggies and giant tractors lumber by. Every morning, an Amish woman knocked on the window to offer him donuts or whatever else she was brewing up in her kitchen. Every afternoon someone, Amish, farmer, or townie, inevitably stopped to ask if he needed help. His record to date was four in one day.

Ten days watching the Winchester kids count money, toss him cheery waves, and goof around with farm toys they'd never seen before. Ten days watching them eat hearty, healthy, home-made dinners while Victor subsisted on packaged meals from the nearest gas station. Ten days, and the kids were starting to get used to him. Starting to ignore him. Starting to forget him. Soon, one of them would slip up, and he would have them.

Of course, this wasn't Victor's only plan. He had agent Baum scouring crime scenes from Bushnell to Media, looking for the connection. Because he knew they were connected. A rash of strange, gruesome deaths was sweeping the area, an area know for a lack of violent crime. The locals put each one down to accidental causes. Henricksen didn't agree: John Winchester had been at every single location.

 _After the fact_ , Agent Baum pointed out repeatedly. Always after the fact. He would follow this remark with comments that this was a white collar case, and that Victor no longer worked in homicide.

Victor couldn't argue with him about the facts. John Winchester had no connection to the victims pre-death. No connection to the location pre-death.

Still. There was a connection somewhere. Victor just had to find it. Which was why he spent most of his time on stakeout pouring over the crime-scene data Baum had collected.

"Aaaagh!" A shrill scream ripped through the quiet country evening, shooting up Henricksen's heart-rate and propelling his limbs into action. He jumped out of the car, gun in hand, and ran toward the source of the sound; the barn where the Winchester children were staying. Images of their bodies, spread-eagle and bloody just like the photos he'd been staring at for the past hour, flashed through his mind.

 _No_! He ran faster and burst into the barn, gun held ready.

"Whoooo-hooo!" Sam shrieked, flying through air. He clung to a long rope, like a spider on his web, and hollered with glee as he swung back and forth across the barn.

A quick visual sweep of the room showed another kid up at the top of the loft, waiting for his turn with the rope, and Dean with his Amish friend sitting at the bottom of the ladder. There was nobody Henricksen could classify as a 'bad guy' anywhere in sight.

"Agent." Dean had his hands held up cautiously. "Uh-did you want a turn?"

Victor scowled and holstered his gun. Sam cackled hysterically as the rope slowed, and he jumped into a pile of hay.

"He can't have a turn Dean, he'd break the rope."

Dean winced, but didn't argue with the assessment. Victor marshaled his pride and holstered his gun. "I heard a scream. Keep it down in here. Your disturbing the peace."

"Yes, we will be quiet," the Amish boy said earnestly.

"Not until my turn is over!" The other boy in the loft caught hold of the rope, wrapped himself around the small knot at the base, and jumped, screaming all the way.

"Whooo-hoooo!" He sailed across the barn like a pendulum on an old clock, laughing and shrieking all the way until he finally fell off into the pile of hay.

Victor turned away. _I wouldn't break the rope_. Besides, he was a grown up. An FBI agent. It wouldn't do, to play with the children. No matter how much the memory of his ten-year-old self wanted to. There had been no barns where he grew up. Dean scrambled up the ladder, his eyes glinting with anticipation, and prepared to swing. Victor shut the barn door behind him.

He had wanted them to relax. Wanted them to get comfortable and stop worry about his presence. But right now, all he wanted was a turn on that swing. _It's just the stakeout_. Long days with nothing to do. He was tired to waiting, he wanted action. That was all. He wasn't jealous.

The lights in the barn winked out about an hour later. The sun was set, and the only light came from the giant, silver moon which illuminated the landscape almost as well as a street lamp. It was the perfect night for a stakeout, or for getting up to trouble in the dark.

The door to the barn squeaked and slid open, followed by the hiss of a whispered voice trying not to be heard. Victor immediately straightened. What kind of fun were the Winchesters up to now?

"Shh! He'll hear us. We don't want the FBI on our tail tonight."

"Are you sure we can't get into real trouble for this?"

"Totally."

Two small figures exited the barn; the younger brother and his little friend. Their arms were full. One carried a large, heavy sack, the other, a long, round tube of some kind. Victor narrowed his eyes, and leaned forward intently. The boys scurried through the night, turning down a dirt lane. Victor waited until they were nearly out of sight, then turned on the car's engine and followed as slowly as possible, without headlights.

At the end of a dirt road, between a pond and a soybean field, the boys dropped their burdens and began to set up. Victor picked up his binoculars for a better view. Sam was shoving a round object into what looked like a large plastic tube. The other boy sprayed an aerosol can into the base of the tube for a moment, then lit a match.

The boy's voices echoed across the field.

"Ready, fire!" There was a flash of flame and aloud crack, followed by a splash. Both boys cheered. "Awesome! Right in the water."

Henricksen was tense in his seat. Were these kids playing with some kind of firearm? He knew farm kids learned to handle a rifle at an early age, but this was no rifle. What was it? Whatever it was, it looked like fun.

He had definitely been in white-collar too long. As soon as this case was over, he was hitting the firing range. Maybe he could talk SWAT into letting him play with a few of their toys. They were better than anything these small-town kids could come up with. Right?

The kids were hopping up and down with excitement.

"Did you see the flames?"

"Get another one."

There followed another flash of fire, a sharp crack, and a dull thump. A shrill yip cut through the night, and a dark shadow shot across the field, rattling the brush in its wake.

"Did you see that? I think we nearly got a coyote."

"Load it up again!"

Flames. _Crack_! _Smash_! The back window of the car shattered, making Henricksen jump so hard he rammed his head against the car ceiling. He spun in the seat and stared at the mess in the back. Among the shattered glass was a half-exploded potato.

Potato?

He picked up the spud and stared. _Who shoots potatoes_? the FBI-trained part of his brain asked. The other half, the one that had ruled when he was ten, jumped up and down gleefully and asked, _Where can we get one of those_?

"You got his car!"

"Uh-oh."

"What do we do?"

Henricksen knew his cue. It was the moment he had been waiting for. He dropped the potato, shoved the car door open, and burst out shouting, "You kids!"

"Run!"

Dropping tube, matches, and potatoes, both boys took off in separate directions. They were the same age, same size, same skinny, bony build. But Victor had been watching Sam Winchester for ten days. He knew the kid's gait, the shape of his jacket, bounce of his shaggy hair. There was no hesitation; he ignored the new kid and homed in on Sam.

"You are gonna get it now, kid!"

Sam darted for the line of weeds and trees that surrounded the small pond. If he made it into the brush, all he would have to do was duck and hold still and Victor would never find him.

Victor reached into his coat, past his holster, and into his pocket. He knew he couldn't bring down the running child with a gun. He refused to even try; the kid was annoying, not dangerous, and he wouldn't risk an accident.

 _Never point a gun at something you don't intend to shoot_.

He had something else ready for this moment; a large sock filled with sand and tied off at the ends. Something his older brother had shown him a long time ago; sometimes kids' tricks were still the best. He pulled his arm back, summoning the memories of a hundred summer baseball games as a child, and threw. The sock caught Sam's ankle, wrapping around it several times, and the kid fell nose-first into the dirt with a surprised squeal.

Sam rolled on the ground, hands flailing to wipe dirt from his face, feet kicking at the sock around his ankle. His eyes grew big when he saw the agent looming over him. "Owww."

"Oh, quit whining." Henricksen "It's nice, soft dirt. You're fine." I hope.

Sam sniffed, and glared, but didn't cry. Henricksen held back a sigh of relief. Good, no read damage done. He pulled out his cuffs. "But you did destroy federal property, so you're coming with me."

"I didn't mean to. You can't aim a potato gun, there's no rifling, and the potatoes are all weird shapes." Sam's response was instant, and possibly genuine.

It didn't matter.

"Yeah, and the judge might agree. But it'll take at least a week to get you a hearing, and until then, you stay in my custody. Unless your Dad wants to come have a chat."

Sam gulped, and bit his lip. His look said it all. He knew his father would come for him.

Victor grinned, and unwrapped the homemade bola from Sam's ankle. _Thank you, big brother_. Things were finally going according to plan.

 **NOTE:** Well, I hope you enjoyed it. Now, what will John and Dean do with Sam in FBI custody? What will Henricksen do, when he has to deal with Sam all day long?


	17. Lost and Found

**Chapter 17: Lost and Found**

Corn. Dean didn't care if he never saw corn again. He was surrounded by corn, inside and out. You couldn't turn around without seeing fields of the giant green stalks, slowly turning yellow in the heat. Dean had eaten corn in one form or another every day since they'd arrived in Roseville. Corn-bread casserole, corn muffins, sweet corn on the cob, always there was corn.

That hadn't been so bad, really. If someone else was doing the cooking, Dean wasn't complaining.

But tonight he had literally gotten lost in the corn. One minute, he and Dad had been looking for a cursed hammer in a barn full of antiques. Then, Dad had crashed into him and they'd both landed with such a clatter the farmer in the house across the yard had come running, shotgun ready. Dad had pulled Dean into the cornfield and run until they'd lost the farmer. And themselves.

In the dark, surrounded by seven-feet of corn, there was no telling which way they'd come in. They'd stumbled through the field for a good hour, and Dean had learned some interesting new curses, until they staggered out into the road. Then, it was a mile hike to where Dad had parked the Impala and another few miles after Dad dropped Dean off, well out of the FBI agent's usual orbit.

Now, Dean limped toward the welcoming light streaming from the windows of the barn he'd called home for the past week. Sammy must be back by now. Good boy. Dean needed some good news tonight.

He opened the door to hear music. Heinrich had an old radio set up next to his truck, and sang along unashamedly as he puttered away on the old engine. His voice was deep and rich, harmonizing perfectly with Tim McGraw.

"I like it, I love it, I want some more of it!"

Yep, there was no way Heinrich was staying on this Amish farm much longer. "Heinrich, my man, I've got some great cassettes you need to listen to."

"Dean!" Heinrich beamed and turned the radio down. "You're back! I got the oil filter in like you said. I think it's ready!"

Dean felt a warm glow growing inside. "Yeah?" Dean inspected the worked and nodded in approval. Heinrich had good hands, and everything was in place. Dean grinned and slapped him on the back. "Looks good. Got the key?"

Heinrich pulled the small bit of metal from his pocket, his grin rivaling Dean's. Both boys clambered in. Heinrich took a deep breath and turned the key. The motor groaned and moaned to life, making the entire truck bed vibrate.

"Alright!" Dean whooped and raised his hand for a high-five. "Awesome! Now we just have to get you some wheels and you'll be outta here in no time."

"I like it, I love it, I want more of it!" Heinrich shouted, slightly off-key. He wrapped his arms around Dean in a rib-crushing hug. "Oh, thank you my friend!"

"No problem." Dean looked up at the loft, and frowned. With all the racket they were making, Sam should have come down to complain by now. "Hey, Heinrich, where's Sammy?"

Heinrich shrugged. "I haven't seen him. I waited up, but he didn't come back."

Dean jumped out of the truck and climbed the ladder to find the loft empty. Sam's bed hadn't been slept in, neither had Shea's sleeping bag. Dean checked his watch. It was well pas 1 am.

A slip of paper lay on Dean's bed. The words were short and official.

"John Winchester. This is official notice that your son Sam has been arrested for a federal crime. He is being held in Roseville. Please contact our office at once." There followed an 800-number.

"Mother Shucker!" Dean had learned that one from the farmer. He leaned out of the loft to call down to Heinrich. "How about we get those wheels on tonight? I need to go save the FBI from my little brother."


	18. Behind Bars

**So sorry, it has been far too long between updates. I will try to do better!**

 **Chapter 18: Behind Bars**

Fifty-nine ceiling tiles. Eighty-seven floor tiles. One hundred twenty five cinder blocks in the wall. Twenty-nine thigh drumbeats before the on-duty cop yelled at him to stop. Only six choruses of 99 Bottles of Beer On The Wall before the same. Sam heaved a sigh and leaned back on the thin cot that was the only furniture in his tiny cell. He was running out of things to count.

It hadn't been so bad at first. When Henricksen tossed him in the cell, Sam just curled up on the cot and slept. There was no way Dean was going to come for him until morning. At 8 am on the dot, Dean was at the door. By then, Baum was doing guard duty, and he'd kindly told Dean that only Sam's father would be allowed to see him. Dean gave Sam a reassuring wink before sauntering away whistling "Back in Black." He would be back, Sam had no doubt.

Until then, his job was to be distracting. One FBI agent guarding him meant one less FBI agent chasing Dad. Which meant Dad could get this hunt over with. Then, they would leave. Sam lifted his chin to get a better view out the window across the room. Another nice town, another new friend, left behind forever.

Sam kicked at the cot. Baum turned, his mouth open to tell him to be quiet, but after a moment he let out a breath and closed it again. "Have you had any breakfast yet?"

Sam shook his head. Baum passed his bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich through the bars. Sam eyed it warily.

"Aren't you supposed to let me sit in here and get scared and hungry so that when Henricksen comes back I'll want to talk to him?"

Baum shook his head and laughed. "You sure have got his number, haven't you? What Victor doesn't know won't hurt him. Somehow, I don't think you're going to be giving us anything useful."

"What would be worth a cup of coffee?" Sam asked.

"You're too young for coffee, kid."

Sam shook his head, eyes serious. "No, sir. I drink it every morning, it's the most important vitamin of the day."

"Tell me where your dad is?"

Sam snorted. "I don't know." Even if he did, that was an awfully big question to start with. Clearly, Agent Baum had never had any classes in negotiation.

Baum studied him for a moment. "You don't, do you?"

Sam shook his head. "Nope."

"But you know how to contact him."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. That's worth more than a cup of coffee."

Baum went to the pot, poured a mug full of steaming black liquid, and passed it to Sam. "First one is free. Tell me about yourself, Sam."

Sam shuddered as the coffee hit his tongue. Black, bitter, and wonderful. It wormed through him, igniting the tired synapses of his brain. He grinned. "You want to know about me, agent? I thought you wanted to hear about my dad."

It was too obvious. He might as well have held up a sign in big, bold letters that said, "trap!" Baum shifted in his seat, clearly ready to take anything that came out of Sam's mouth next with a grain of salt. "Yes, Sam, I would like to hear about your dad. What would you like to tell me?"

Sam took another slow sip of coffee. He had a feeling he would need to be far more careful with his words around Agent Baum than he'd ever bothered to be around Henricksen. This was going to be an interesting game.

 **Author's Note: Well, what did you think?**


	19. Best Laid Plans

**Chapter 19: Best Laid Plans**

Victor had a plan. He loved nothing more than letting a suspect stew. Making them sweat, make them wait. Let them get hungry and uncomfortable, scared and bored. Let them feel the gravity of their situation settled like a weight in the pit of the stomach. Then, Victor would make his move. It worked like a charm every time.

The noon sun boiled the blacktop road so that it bubbled and stuck to Henricksen's boots as he strode down the street. He had a bag of hamburgers in his hand, a smile on his face, and a whistle on his lips. It was time to watch the pieces fall together. It was time for Sam Winchester to talk.

The kid had been stewing all night. Victor had left a box of bran flakes at the station for the kid's breakfast, and strict instructions that no one talk to him. They had to wait for child services to be present for the interrogation/interview anyway.

He met Ms. Trickle at the door to the police station. The attorney hovering at her shoulder looked extremely uncomfortable, sweating through his black suit in the summer heat. With a broad smile and a duck of his head, Henricksen held the door for them.

The sound of laughter echoed across the reception area. Victor felt his plans shatter. His whistle wavered, his smile faltered.

Not good.

Baum's voice filtered past the front desk. "Do you have any twos?"

"Go fish!" Sam' didn't sound bored, hungry, or scared. He sat cross-legged on a desk, not even in his cell anymore, a fist full of cards and a grin on his face. "Do you have any sevens?"

"Burger time!" The line Henricksen had planned bounced off his lips before he had time to reconsider. Well, it could still work. Kids loved junk food. The sight of two agents noisily devouring burgers, while Sam had to whatever cardboard-infused food the police station served.

"Yuck!" Sam made a gagging noise. "What, do you want to have a heart attack? Can I have a salad?"

"Yuck!" Baum mirrored Sam's tone, complete with eye-roll. "Green food? Whatever you say, kid. Be back in a jiff." Baume tossed in his cards and winked at Henricksen on his way out the door, as if he had achieved some great feat.

The colorful string of words Victor would have sent after him were not appropriate in the presence of a minor. He bit his lip and turned to Sam. Sam stared back, eyes wide, face serious.

"Agent."

"Winchester."

All that was missing was a pair of cowboy hats, revolvers slung at their hips, and a town clock ticking its way toward high noon to make the standoff complete.

Sam's eyes grew wider and shinier at Henricksen watched. Large, fat tears wobbled on his lashes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. But he'd turned away from Victor, ignoring the agent entirely. His sad, shinning face fixed on Ms. Trickle and the attorney. "Please." His voice was shrill, with an edge of panic in it. "Please don't send me to jail. My brother told me what happens in jail. I don't want to get beat up in the showers. I don't want to make license plates. I didn't mean to do it. We were just having fun. It was potatoes. I didn't think potatoes were illegal."

"Well, they're not, as such," the attorney stuttered. He handed Sam a tissue. Sam blew his nose loudly, and sniffed. Victor could see Ms. Trickle's stern face melt. He could see the attorney's spine turn to jelly. It was those big eyes. Superman had laser vision, Sam had his own version.

Three hours later, Ms. Trickle and the attorney left, and Sam sat in his cell munching on an ice-cream cone. Victor had turned his back for five minutes, and caught the police department's secretary passing it to him through the bars. Her only response to Victor's glare was to tell him where he could get one of his own.

It was like Sam Winchester had the entire town wrapped around his little finger.

Agent Baum sat on the front step, a milkshake in one hand. "Well?"

"Nothing," Henricksen bit out. Three hours, and he'd learned nothing. The attorney had practically begged him to drop the charges, and Ms. Trickle was busy looking for a foster home. They'd have the kid out of his custody by nightfall, unless he got a judge to issue a special order.

"Hm." Baum slurped on the milkshake. "Should've had Mable get you an ice cream while she was out. The shop's just-"

"I can see it down the corner from here!" Victor snapped.

Baum shrugged. "Suit yourself. You let me know when you're ready to hear what I learned."

"You?" Victor stared down at the pasty nerd, fingers sticky with ice-cream. "You played Go-Fish."

"And Twenty Questions." Baum wiped his hands on a napkin. "Did you bother to read my file, before you came on this job with me? I read yours. You don't have kids."

"So?"

"I've got five." Baum leaned back, slurping on his shake again.

Victor rolled his eyes. Sometimes, his fellow agents were worse than the crooks. "What'd you get?"

"Is that a nice way to ask for anything?"

"Please, tell me what you learned from that little con artist." There was no doubt in Victor's mind that Sam would end up exactly like his father one day. The kid was a criminal in the making if ever he'd seen one.

"He's a smart kid. He's been to more than twenty schools, lived in every state in the lower 48, and thinks the world of his dad. Knows his dad would never abandon him, and knows his dad would never abandon his job." Baum paused. "John Winchester will make his move tonight, but not here. He knows we won't hurt his kid."

"But he'll come for the kid as soon as its done." Henricksen remembered the dark, furious eyes, and the deadly warning he'd received at gunpoint. There was no doubt in his mind that John Winchester would come for his son. Stick to the plan.

Baum shrugged. "Probably."

"So we stick to the plan. We wait for Winchester to come to us."

Baum tossed his paper cup in the trash. "Suit yourself. I'm off to tail Dean. Whatever John Winchester is up to, he's going to make his move tonight."


	20. Hay Dude

**Chapter 20: Hay Dude**

"Whoo-hoo!" Heinrich let out a whoop of glee, hands tight against the steering wheel. Wind whipped through the open windows and a country song twanged about back roads while the newly assembled engine rattled merrily. Heinrich pushed the gas as far as it would go, sending them sailing over the crest of a hill. Two teenagers, a country road, and a Friday night. It was perfection.

Dean didn't mention the black sedan keeping pace behind them. For his Amish friend, the FBI was irrelevant, and Dean intended to keep it that way. He grinned and patted the passenger door, drumming in time to the music. "She's a thing of beauty, my friend."

Heinrich eased off the gas as they crested the next hill, where a huge face stared out across the fields. It had trash can lids for eyes, and a giant red mouth. Dressed in old clothes like a scarecrow, the "Hay Dude" was the best landmark between Roseville and the next town over. Heinrich pulled the truck over to park on the shoulder below the giant hay-man.

"Thank you, my friend." Heinrich held out his hand, and Dean shook it warmly before stepping out of the truck.

"Anytime, Heinrich my man. Now, you remember that you need to go to the DMV and get yourself a license before you drive this baby around too much on your own. Cops are fussy that way."

"I know English rules." Heinrich reached into his pocket and displayed a colorful driver's-license. "I got it on my birthday! I am not the one who is going to be in trouble tonight. Are you going to be alright?" He glanced sideways at the black sedan lurking behind them.

"I'll be fine. I'm meeting my Dad."

Heinrich frowned. "Yah, ok. Be careful, friend."

Dean flashed his best grin. "I'm always careful."

"Ha!" Heinrich mirrored Dean's grin,then punched the gas, making the engine roar before he let his foot off the brake and disappeared down the hill.

Dean watched until he couldn't hear the engine anymore. Another town, another friend made. If he ever came through here again, he'd have someone to hang with. As long as he left the beer behind, because the boy who would definitley not remain Amish still refused to drink despite Dean's best efforts. He sipped the thermos of tea Heinrich's mother had provided and contemplated the black sedan parked cautiously on the other side of the road. Dean tossed his bag over his shoulder and sauntered toward the Hay Dude, like a curious tourist checking out the finer points of country life. He climbed the fence and crouched behind the stacked bales, listening. It didn't take long for the crunch of footsteps to follow.

Police, county sheriff, FBI, they all used the same tactics. Dean couldn't keep the smirk off his face as he circled round the hay bale and jumped the agent from behind. It was the smaller one, the one who spend most of his day behind a desk crunching numbers. He didn't even get a chance to get his gun out.

Dean was busy tying the last knots when he heard another set of footsteps behind him, and a deep voice asked, "Whatcha doin' there son?" John Winchester scratched his head, looking quizzically from Dean to the man in the suit, to Dean again. "That's an awful lot of rope for such a little fellow."

"He's FBI."

"Oh." John gave a low grunt of approval and bent down to look Agent Baum in the eye. The agent's eyes rolled, searching for an exit, but there was none.

"So, Agent. My son Sam. He alright?"

The agent snorted. "Eating ice cream and annoying the guard."

John grinned, a fiercer version of Dean's cheerful smirk. "That sounds about right. Well, agent, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to let you spend the night here. You see, I've got a job to do, and we can't be interrupted."

Agent Baum pushed against the ropes, but they didn't budge. John gave Dean an approving nod. The agent could wriggle all night, it wouldn't do him any good. Dean had learned to tie knot from the best. The agent's face fell.

"At least tell me what you do? I've been crunching the numbers for months, and I still can't figure out the pattern."

John gave the man a sharp grin. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." He clasped Dean on the shoulder. "Come on, son. We've got work to do."

Dean hefted his bag and followed his father toward the Impala, a spring in his step. Finally, time for action. "Yes, sir!"

 **Please Review!**


	21. Pain in the Ass

**Chapter 21: Pain in the Ass**

Science was never Sam's favorite subject in school. It usually involved gears and wires, or else sticking his hands into something gooey. Or, on rare occasions, building things. Sam was better with words and books and facts he could memorize. He liked it when the answer was straightforward. Like math, 2 plus 2 equaled 4 every time. But this was clearly a science project, not a math equation.

How to escape from a jail cell. Items you can use: One blanket, two sheets. Soap and toilet paper. Shoes, shoe string. One bed frame and mattress. Sam ran through the list in his head. Had he left anything out? The cell contained nothing but the bare necessities. A bed, a toilet, and a sink.

Oh.

Sam's eyes fell on the sink, and climbed up the wall to the ceiling panels above. He was getting taller every day. Dean threatened to sit on him, so he wouldn't get any taller than his older brother. Sam could hardly imagine being bigger than Dean. Being that tall hardly seemed possible. But for now, for today, he might jut be tall enough to reach.

Agent Henricksen lurked by the door. He stood sideways, one eye on the cell and Sam, the other on the door to the outside. He knew trouble could come from either direction.

Sam opened his mouth wide, making his jaw crack, and put a fist to his mouth to cover the yawn. Then he stretched, blinking blearily. Henricksen watched, shifting his feet. Sam sighed and bounced on the cot. "This bed is lumpy."

"Get used to it, you're here until they have a space open at the holding facility in Peoria."

Sam scrunched his nose, sighed again, and lay back. He let his arms flop, dangling off the edge of the bed.

Don't move.

It wasn't easy. Sam was used to staying up late, and it was barely nine o'clock. Winchester bedtime was well after midnight. Sam could hear the clock ticking away the slow seconds, and Agent Henricksen's bored shuffle.

Nothing happening here, Agent. Keep your eyes on the front door.

Sam felt his skin itching, his legs twitching. Holding still was hard. Dean did it all the time, sprawled across the couch watching TV, but there was no TV here. Sam sighed and let his mind drift. He fell into an list of old drills that Dad would make them recite every time one or the other brother declared he was bored in the back seat of the car.

How do you kill a Wnedigo? Fire.

How do you kill a shape shifter? Silver.

Sam killed forty different monsters in his mind before he cracked an eye open. Agent Henricksen stood at the window, hands on hips, looking out into the night.

Perfect.

Moving without making a sound was a skill that John had drilled into his boys before they ever learned to hold a gun. If Sam wanted a snack at night, he had to creep past his father and brother. If either woke up, he had to go back to bed and try again. They laid traps across the hotel room, and each took a turn slipping past them, all without making a sound.

Sam's feet were light on the ground, no louder than a mouse. He didn't tip-toe, that was for amateurs. Every step was carefully placed, settling into the floor as if one with the tile. Then up, onto the sink. His palms rested against the ceiling tiles, and a thrill rushed down to his toes. He was plenty tall enough for this. One careful push, and he had an opening large enough to fit through. One pull, and he was up, feet dangling. He squinted in the dark crawlspace. He didn't know the way out, but at least he wasn't in his cell anymore. He kicked his feet, struggling to pull himself all the way up.

"Oh no you don't!" Henricksen's bellow echoed across the room. Sam pulled, but too late. A hand grasped his ankle and yanked. They both crashed to the ground. Sam landed on the cot, taking the fall with his legs and curling to roll onto his shoulder. Falling was also a regular Winchester drill.

The FBI clearly didn't have the same drills. Henricksen crashed into the wall butt-first. His mouth opened in a grunt of pain and he landed on the floor, the tin sink crunched beneath his rear-end. Victor clenched his fist and clapped a hand against his rear. Sam eyed the fallen agent, and then lunged for the open cell door.

"Not on my watch!" A hand caught Sam's ankle again. Sam tugged, Victor tugged back. Sam's hands slid on the floor as he was dragged back into the cell.

Henricksen took in a deep breath, and shook his head. Sam waited for the shouting, the lecture, the threats. Henricksen just grinned, and chuckled as if this was some kind of game. "You nearly got me kid. Nice try, but it ain't gonna be that easy." He pulled handcuffs from his belt and attached Sam's ankle to the bed post. "You are not going anywhere."


	22. Family Business

**Chapter 22: Family Business**

Ghosts. They always had tragic histories. They always died bloody. If Dean sat down and read all of the real-life ghost-making stories he'd heard while working with Dad, he'd want to bury his head under a blanket for a week. It was sad, it was unfair, and it just sucked whichever way you looked at it. Dean had long ago decided to stop caring about the people in the stories. They may have been real once, but they were dead now, and that meant salt and burn.

Keep it simple, stupid.

So when Dad said that there was a ghost attached to a hundred-year old hammer, Dean didn't ask questions. He didn't need to know how many skulls the owner had bashed in when he was alive. He didn't need to know how the guy had died. He wasn't dead enough, and it was time for the Winchesters to fix that.

Which was why Dean was sardined between a giant farmer in overalls and a little old lady with a plastic wrap on her head, inside the dimly-lit auction barn. The place was huge on the outside, three stories high and the biggest barn in the county. But inside the light was dim and the people were packed so close together it felt like too many fish crammed into a tin can. The few rows of chairs were already full, and people just kept coming.

"One dollar bidding now, one and one and one, do I have two?" The bespectacled man at the front of the hall spoke into a sock-covered microphone, keeping up the persistent cadence without seeming to draw a breath between words. A younger man with a nearly identical face and glasses held up a giant yoke. A young girl with bushy brown hair carried plated pieces of pie through the crowd, and a woman who had to be her grandmother, judging from the layers of gray in her hair, dished up hot food out of a small kitchen off to one side. Three generations worked in tandem to keep the crowd fed, the bids high, and the antiques moving.

A family business.

In all the mess, Dean didn't see how he was supposed to find one hammer. Dad had been tossed out on his ear after the auctioneer's son had found him rifling through the room of things-yet-to-be-sold. His shotgun was loaded with more than just salt, which meant John Winchester had to keep his distance.

It was up to Dean now.

He tried to focus on the auction, but couldn't keep his eyes off the girl. She wasn't his type, she was probably no older than Sam. But her hands were always full of pie.

"Did you want a slice?" She stood in front of him, a pie plate in each hand. "We've got apple and banana cream. Two dollars per slice."

Dean licked his lips, mouth watering. "Uh-huh." He fumbled in his pocket for cash, when suddenly he found both plates shoved into his hand. The girl stomped past him, hands on hips in imitation of the woman running the kitchen crew.

"Jake! Put that back, or I'm telling your dad! Grandpa said we can't play with those."

Dean spun to see a hefty kid hefting a hammer with an iron top and a worn wooden handle. The haunted hammer, of course.

"Grandpa said we could pick something to have, I pick this! I bet I can break a car window with this thing." He waved it around experimentally.

"You were supposed to pick before it started!"

"Were not."

"Were too!"

"Hey! Cut it out or you don't get anything!" The woman behind the counter snapped in a tone to rival John Winchester's best drill-sergeant voice. "Jake, put it back. Jenny, did you sell that pie yet?"

"Oh!" The girl's eyes flew wide and she snatched the two dollar's from Dean's hands, then vanished back into the crowd. Dean stared at the two pieces of pie, ready to cry. He had to put at least one of them down to go get that hammer.

What were the odds it would stay in the same place long enough for him to devour the banana cream?

Jake edged back towards the table of antique hardware. Dean sighed, abandoned the pie, and moved in on the kid. He was big, but that didn't make any difference. One firm elbow in the gut sent him stumbling back against the wall.

"Whooops, sorry," Dean muttered, letting himself fall against the table as if it were all an accident. The room was so crowded, it was an easy fake. He came away with the hammer tucked into his jacket and wiggled back through the crowd before Jake could catch his breath. One hand snagged a pie plate on his way past.

John was waiting by the car. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Dean's sticky fingers covered with banana-cream, but grinned when Dean produced the hammer. "That's it son." He produced a tin bucket and a lighter, and lit the hammer like it was a torch.

Dean watched the flames flicker over the edges of the bucket and licked his fingers. A job well done. John gestured for Dean to get into the car. "We've got a long ride, best get a move on."

"Roseville is like ten minutes that way." Dean jerked his thumb in the direction of the down back down the hill. "What's the plan for springing Sam?"

"He'll meet us in Minnesota." John smiled, but didn't say another word. He put the Impala in gear and pulled away from the barn and cornfields, leaving Roseville far behind.

 **NOTE: How does John plan to free Sam? Coming soon! If you liked it, please review!**


	23. Checkmate

**Chapter 23: Checkmate**

Agent Victor Henricksen leaned against the desk and caressed his rear-end with a bag of ice. The cold helped soothe the fire in his swollen butt, and he let out a sigh of relief. Sam sat in his cell, ankle shackled to the bed frame, staring. It was like being in the same room as a portrait with eyes that moved. The kid didn't twitch, but that narrowed gaze had followed Victor's every move for hours. It was more unnerving than anything else the kid had done yet. He didn't speak, didn't fidget, hadn't even asked to pee.

The sun was beginning to creep through the windows, and no one had showed yet. Not John Winchester to retrieve his kid. No Agent Baum to relieve Victor. The quiet had reigned for hours, and the FBI agent was running on caffeine and pain-killers. His eyes crossed involuntarily, he was drifting…

Henricksen shook himself back awake. Where was Agent Baum? His partner should have checked in ages ago. If they were back at the home office, he would have sent a team for the other man by now. But Henricksen couldn't leave his prisoner unattended, and the locals had refused to pull overnight duty just to keep a kid in a cell when there was a perfectly good foster home available.

A beat-up pick-up pulled into the station and Baum tumbled out, hands wrapped around a mug of steaming coffee. He shuffled blearily through the door and slumped into the first chair he saw.

"Where the hell have you been?" Victor demanded.

Baum huddled over his coffee and muttered, "I think I'm allergic to hay." His voice was hoarse and his nose stuffed. "I was stranded."

"Ha! Dean Winchester got you, didn't he?"

Baum glared back at his partner. "I was right. John Winchester was there. If you'd come with me…" Baum's eyes strayed across the room and finally landed on the scene inside the cell. The sink, crushed, on the floor. The pipes sticking out of the wall, and the panel hanging from the ceiling. "What did you do to the kid?"

"Me?" Victor pushed himself to stand up straight, and pain lanced through is backside. "Me do to him? The kid is fine. Tried to do an impression of Spider-Man and climb up the walls. I discouraged the idea." Henricksen threw his ice pack on the floor. "Where did Winchester go? He's got to come back for his kid, right?"

Baum shrugged. "We didn't know he had kids when we got here. Clearly, we don't have enough data on the man. He could have another way-"

"Ah-hem." The door had opened again, and a tall, thin man stood on the step, clearing his throat. He wore all black, with a white preacher's collar at his neck. "Excuse me, is this the Roseville Police Dept? I'm looking for-ah, there he is!" The priest stepped forward to wave at Sam.

"Pastor Jim!" Sam scrambled off his cot, leaving the handcuffs behind, and pushed out of the cell to latch onto the older man with a warm hug. "I was stuck in jail all night!"

Henricksen stared at the abandoned cuffs and open cell door. "How-"

"I think the lock broke when you fell," Sam said. His eyes were big as he looked up at the priest. "Do I have to go back in, Pastor Jim?"

"No, I'm here to bring you home." The priest's voice was warm and comforting, but there was a twinkle in his eyes that said he knew Sam's tricks well enough.

"Sam is going to the nearest federal court to stand trial. He'll remain in custody until then," Victor snapped. "Unless he is release to his parent's custody."

Pastor Jim held out a creased piece of paper. "I am here in loco parentis. I have the same authority over Sam as his father, when John can't be present. He thought it a good idea, since the boys don't have a mother."

Victor glared at the paper, but it was all in order. The documents had even been singed five years ago, and the paper smelled like it had been in storage for that long. If this was a con, he had no way to prove it. Henricksen tried to fix the priest with a stern glare, but the other man just looked so…friendly, unassuming, helpful. The priest lowered the tension in the room just by remaining calm. "You'll be responsible to make sure he shows up for his court date in Peoria next week.

"Ah, yes. I had a chat with the judge on my way here. He agreed that we can't let Sam's schooling suffer just because of something John may or may not have done. Sam will come stay with me in Minnesota, and he can stand trial at the federal court there. School starts next week, we wouldn't want to interrupt his education. I've already got him enrolled at Blue Earth Middle School."

"Yes!" Sam pumped his fist in the air, grinning.

Checkmate. Game over.

Pastor Jim placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and guided him out the door, Sam chattering all the way. "Do you know what I was in for? A potato! Did you know they make guns that shoot potatoes? I didn't. But you should have seen it when we-"

The door swung shot behind them. Henricksen slumped back into his chair, and immediately bounced back to his feet as his tailbone protested. Baum jerked his thumb toward the door.

"I want some sleep, looks like you could use some too. We can hit the road after lunch."

And that was it. The incident would be one more addendum to the ongoing Winchester file. The trail had gone cold, and there was nothing else to be done until the man slipped up again.

Victor just hoped he could transfer back to homicide before that happened, and the Winchester's would be somebody else's problem.

 **That's all folks! I hope you enjoyed this story. Please let me know your reactions in the reviews! It has been so great to hear from all of you.**

 **If you are interested in reading more of my work, I have started work on an original story which I will be posting on Fanfiction's sister site, Fictionpress, under the same author name. The story is called The White Prince and is the re-telling of a familiar fairy tale with a twist. If Disney can keep doing it, why can't I? It's gonna be a bit funny, a bit tragic, and hopefully a good YA adventure. I hope you'll give it a try.**

 **Don't worry, I won't stop writing fanfiction. Thanks for reading, love you guys!**


	24. Epilogue

**Tag**

 **200** **6, IL Hghwy 116**

"I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law!"

Dean's voice cracked on the last note, and Sam cringed. He glared at his brother, drumming on the steering wheel and barely looking at the road as he drove.

"Seriously, Dean?"

Dean grinned, still bobbing his head as Styx continued to wail through the speakers. "What's wrong, Sammy? It's a classic."

"We know the FBI is after us. Which is why we're on this back road with no actual destination in mind to begin with. Running from the Feds. And that's the song you choose?"

"Of course that's the song I choose! You gotta learn to live a little, Sammy. Would you prefer Jailhouse Rock?"

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. "No." He glared out the window at the cornfields speeding by. "Where are we going, anyway? This is pretty far into the middle of nowhere."

"Just cruising wherever the muse takes me. That was the plan, isn't it? If we don't have a plan, the FBI can't predict it and catch us? Unless you've found us another hunt."

"I have to have access to the internet or a newspaper for that," Sam grumbled, slumping down in the seat. "And I haven't seen either since the last town we passed that actually had a stoplight. I'm hungry."

"Don't worry, Sammy, there'll be a filling station…"

"For real food, Dean," Sam whined, as only a little brother could.

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Vegetables and all the trimmings, huh? Don't worry, we'll find food soon."

"How do you know?"

"I have a sixth sense about these things."

"You do not."

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"Do too-Hey! Look at that." Dean pointed to a giant figure on the crest of the hill. It felt familiar, somehow. This whole road felt familiar, which was why he'd turned off on it to begin with. But he still couldn't place _why_ it felt familiar.

"It's a giant man made out of hay," Sam stated in his most dead-pan tone. "There hasn't been a town for miles, Dean. When I said lose the FBI, I didn't mean get us lost, too."

"We're in the last place that agent will think to look for us, Sammy."

"Yeah, how do you know?"

Dean grinned. It was all coming back now. The corn, the black buggies he'd started passing on the road, the giant hay man. And now he finally remembered why that FBI Agent had seemed so familiar.

They'd met before.

Here.

Dean pushed down on the accelerator, and the Impala grumbled as she soared up the hill. "How do you feel about pie?"

"Real food, Dean."

"Yeah, there'll be some of that, too." Dean licked his lips in anticipation. The pie store was right off this road, not ten minutes away. "Hey!" Dean shouted, riding up on the tail of a fourteen-passenger van that lumbered down the road at 10 mph under the speed limit. They were going around a curve, a no passing zone. "Come on! Drive!"

Next to him, Sam snickered. "You wanted to drive in farm country. At least it's not a farmer's tractor going five miles an hour."

"Meh." Dean glowered at the road, riding the van's bumper until it pulled into Cedar Pines Discount Groceries. The Impala followed the van into the parking lot, and Sam perked up, staring.

"Hey, I think I remember this place. Dean…"

Men, women and children in black clothing that looked like it belonged to the previous century spilled out of the van and split off, climbing into separate buggies, hands full of Wal-Mart bags. The driver hopped out, clean-shaven and wearing a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt with the Gand Ole' Opry plastered across the front. He flashed the Impala's driver a grin, singing,

"Three miles of cars layin' on their horns, fallin' on deaf hears of corn, lined up behind me like a big parade-"

"Heinrich!" Dean bounced out of his seat, and instead of going to chew out the other driver, opened his arms wide. "Heinrich my man! Look at you! What, are you the Amish bus driver now?"

The other man's jaw dropped, but then a grin spread across his face. "Dean! Is that you? You're a rude driver!"

"Yeah, man." Dean wrapped Heinrich in a quick hug. "You are a slow driver!"

Heinrich shrugged. "My grandmother still doesn't trust anything that moves too fast, and she always sits right behind the driver's seat."

Dean threw back his head to laugh. "Ha! But look at you, wearing real clothes and everything! I thought your family didn't let you do that. What's with with the bus load?" Dean asked, jerking his thumb at the van.

"Well, buggies don't go very fast, and the closest Wal-Mart is a long drive. So they pay me to take them. Don't worry, I still have my truck back at home, and when I drive her…whoo-hoo! The farmers hate it."

Dean slapped him on the shoulder. "That's my man!"

Heinrich squinted at Sam, who had climbed out of the passenger seat. "Is that your little brother? I told you he would get bigger than you!"

"Hey, Heinrich." Sam held out his hand to shake. "I can't believe you remember us."

"Are you kidding? How could I forget? Do you guys have a place to stay? It's early enough, if I call my wife she can have enough dinner for you."

Dean nodded and nudged Sam with his elbow. "See, what did I tell you? All the trimmings. Yeah, Heinrich, we thought we'd crash in town for the night, after we pick up one of your Aunt's pies."

"Dean!" Sam spread his hands wide. "We can't stay here! The FBI know we know this area."

"Exactly. That FBI agent is smart. He knows we wouldn't be stupid enough to stay any place he's seen us before," Dean said.

Heinrich's eyebrows rose. "Are you in trouble again?"

"Yes," Sam said, at the same time Dean said "No." Sam glared at Dean, who shrugged. "No more than usual. I'll tell you about it over dinner. You won't believe who we met up with again…"


End file.
